Watching, Waiting
by SyrupylikeBreakfastinMontag
Summary: The war is over and everything should be settling down, but there are whispers, rumors that cannot be true: rumors that the Dark Lord has risen once again. And this time Voldemort's interest in Harry has only increased. TMR/HP HP/TMR Tom Marvolo Riddle/Harry Potter Contains slash.
1. Chapter 1

Watching, Waiting Ch. 1

*Author's Note: Well here we go, my second multi-chapter HP/TMR story! I hope that some of you are readers of my previous story back for more. This story is a combination of a request from softdreamer and a request from slytherin's daughter. I hope this lives up to both of your expectations! This story takes place just after the war with Voldemort has ended and Voldemort has been defeated by Harry. Harry and the other students of his year have been given an additional year of schooling to make up for time lost during the war, so this is an 8th year fic. I hope you enjoy!*

"Pain on pain on play, repeating  
With the backup makeshift life in waiting.  
Everybody says that time heals everything.  
But what of the wretched hollow?  
The endless in-between?  
Are we just going to wait it out?"

-Imogen Heap, _Wait It Out_

Harry's breaths come in ragged gasps as he rhythmically places one foot in front of the other. Endless stretches of grass coated ground slither by below Harry's feet as he runs. His entire body aches now. His legs are sore and there's a stitch in his side that stabs into his abdomen like a knife. He's been running for fifty-five minutes now, and it's that time when his limit is approaching. At this moment he has a choice: succumb to the pain or push on, press forward into each shallow breath, every pained footstep. Harry has to separate himself from his pain, tell himself that even though his muscles are screaming, it's nothing he can't handle. He has to tell himself that this is a pain he can take. And he can. He has before, and he will now.

Harry has been training himself to run long distance for about a month now. He doesn't know why he started. He just needed something to do with his body, something to keep his mind clear and his limbs occupied. He feels better when his body is spent, taut muscles aching and coated in sweat. It makes him feel like he has a purpose again. The war has been over for about four months now. Voldemort is dead, the Death Eaters disheartened and disbanded. Most of them are safely tucked away in Azkaban. A few of them died in that final battle, died alongside so many braver, better people. Harry has learned the hard way that wars don't really end when the fighting stops; people have died, memories have been tainted. The pieces have to be picked up and put back together again, only now some of the most vital pieces are missing. Stories lead us to believe that happily ever after is what follows after the bad guy falls and the world is saved. Unfortunately, real life doesn't work that way. Life goes on. The routine keeps spinning. Life hasn't been told that the story is over, that a happy ending is due. It's never so simple as those three little words would have one believe. If only.

The cramp in Harry's side is pulsating, stabbing into him with each inhalation. He keeps on breathing anyways. This is a pain he can handle. This is a pain he can take. His goal for today is to make it to a whole hour without pausing for a break. He only has to keep pushing for five more minutes. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other; that's all it takes. Right?

When Harry started running it was dark, but now streaks of colored light stain the sky, seeping in around the edges of the world like a piece of parchment dipped in water. The sunlight is still too high up to light Harry's path, but he doesn't need it. All he's been doing for the past several days is running around the Quidditch pitch in endless circles. By now the loop has been drilled into Harry's very muscles. Harry's feet carry him round and round now on their own, running miles and going nowhere all at once. Harry would've expected it to be boring, but he likes not having to think about his route or destination. It allows his mind to wander or go blank. It allows him to retreat inside himself, to really and truly appreciate the quiet solitude of the moment.

Harry runs past one of the goal posts. Another lap completed. One more to go: just one. He can do it. The goal post is leaning ever so slightly to the left, gravity tugging it inch by inch towards the ground. During Voldemort's brief reign, Quidditch had been cancelled at Hogwarts, and the pitch has grown rough around the edges from disuse. The grass beneath Harry's feet is shaggy, in need of a trim, but Harry likes the cushion of it beneath his strides. Many things about Hogwarts changed under Voldemort's regime: things that are slowly being repaired now in the aftermath. Some things can't be fixed, though, will be engrained on everyone's memories for the rest of their lives. Neville's back is coated with scars that neither time nor magic can heal. He has been marked forever. But those thin, white scars don't just mark the pain: they mark his own bravery. The scars slicing across Neville's pale flesh will forever remind the world that he's a hero. People need to be reminded of that sometimes. It can be so easy to forget. That's why Harry insisted on having a massive statue of Severus Snape built out in the school's gardens. Snape was never able to get that recognition of his deeds in life; he at least deserves them now in death, what little good it will do him there.

Harry runs quickly by the massive rows of stadium seats. He remembers the cheers at Quidditch games, the bright colors, the mostly good-natured animosity between the houses. He remembers the battle that took place here as well: the giants crushing the wooden benches like toothpicks, the multi-colored curses shooting through the air like fireworks, the people that died to keep their loved ones safe. It feels so surreal to be here in this silence after such brutal noise. It feels surreal to be here at all after the war. Hogwarts has always felt like Harry's home, more so than the Dursley's and even more so than the Burrow. This place was Harry's retreat, the place where he could escape his relative's abuse and be with the people he loves. It still is all those things. It just contains more bad memories now: memories of death and pain and loss. They mingle with the happy memories, not tainting them, but coexisting. Harry wishes they were gone.

By this age, Harry should have graduated by now and be out applying for jobs, but Voldemort's reign messed up a lot of people's schooling. Accordingly, everyone has been invited back, should they so desire, to finish out their schooling and take the NEWTs. Muggleborns who went into hiding, people whose families openly sided with the Order, even those who thought that last year's schooling was just a joke. A year was taken from people's lives by the war. Hogwarts is determined to give that time back, as far as education goes anyways. So here Harry is, taking his do-over. Honestly, it's good to be back.

Sweat drips down Harry's forehead, threatening to splash into his eyes. Harry quickly wipes the moisture away. The wind picks up, the cool breeze chilling Harry's exposed skin. Harry's muscles are on fire, burning, aching, warm beneath his flesh, but his skin is cold. The early morning air is brisk and icy. The tips of Harry's ears and nose are just on the border of numb. Harry wishes they would hurry up and get there. Numb is preferable to the painful tingles that precede it. The second set of goal posts is approaching, looming up out of the darkness. He's almost halfway done, now. Just a little farther, a few more footfalls. He can do it. He is above this pain. It's a simple recipe: one foot in front of the other and repeat. Easier than chocolate chip cookies. It doesn't feel easy right now, though. Right now, it feels like death.

Nothing shows off the malleability of the human body like running. You push yourself until your muscles ache and your limbs shake, and for the first week or so it will hurt and your legs will complain during every other little thing you do. But then your body gets the message: this is how hard we have to work right now, this is as strong as we need to be, and it adapts. Muscles stretch and strengthen, breathing comes easier, the stitch in your side takes longer to appear. Then you run even longer, even farther, and the whole process starts all over again. But the body learns, the body changes to suit your new needs. Harry finds this thought cheerful. If his body can adapt to its pain then so can he. There's hope for the future. He's just still stuck in stage one.

Harry sticks out his left hand, smacking the cold metal of the three goal posts with his open palm as he goes by. Thump, thump, thump. He's halfway there.

Harry had tried flying at first to get out his frustrations, to distract himself, but it hadn't been enough. No matter how fast Harry had flown, no matter how many insane dives and twists he performed, it wasn't enough to physicalize his emotions. The war had left a little hole deep down inside him. Sometimes that hole grew bigger, sucking the rest of Harry's innards into it like a black vortex. At times like those Harry needs to push himself, to feel his muscles stretch to their limits, to ground himself. Exercise allows Harry to connect himself to his body and reality in those moments when he feels them slipping away into despair. Running provides that safety net. It keeps him sane. It keeps the sadness at bay.

Harry wouldn't say that he's depressed. Depressed implies a prolonged sense of uselessness and despair. No, Harry isn't depressed. He's just sad, just missing those whom the war has taken. He's grieving. Every time he sees George standing alone amongst the other Weasleys without his other half Harry's heart breaks. He can't shake that little voice in the back of his head whispering bitterly that if he had just acted faster, figured out Dumbledore's clues sooner, that perhaps Fred could have been saved. He can outrun that voice, though. The logical part of Harry knows that the voice is wrong, that he did the best he could and that the people who fought in the final battle made their own choices. His emotional side just hasn't caught up with that logic yet. His emotional side still believes in heroes who can not only save the day, but also everyone else as well: the heroes of story books and movies. Fictional heroes. There's a reason those heroes are just confined to the pages of children's books, though. Reality is too unfair, too grey to be compatible with black and white heroes like that. The real world just has to make do with what it has, and what it had in this case was a young, rash and inexperienced seventeen-year-old. He'd done the best he could. He'd given up his own life to save the ones he loves, and he'd do it again if he had to. Usually, though, it's something you can only do just the once.

The sun has inched up even higher in the sky now, skimming over the tops of the trees that make up the Forbidden Forest and kissing the very tops of the goal posts Harry is running towards. The posts grow bigger and bigger in Harry's vision, bouncing slightly with each exhausted step. Almost there. Almost. Harry's palm smacks hard against curved metal once, then twice, then, finally, three times. He's done. Harry just stands there panting for a moment, hands on his hips to stabilize himself. He inhales deep gulps of chilly air through his mouth, then exhales wheezily through his slightly stuffed nose. Sweat trickles down his neck to stain his already unpleasantly damp t-shirt. He's never wanted a shower more, preferably a warm one. As quickly as Harry's shaky legs can carry him, Harry walks off across the pitch to the Gryffindor locker room where a shower and a clean set of clothes wait patiently.

Lights flicker wearily into existence as Harry pushes open the red and gold door of the Gryffindor locker room. At first, it had felt strange to be in here by himself so early in the morning. Usually Harry is in here with a horde of screaming and teasing boys, all elbows and knobby knees and towels that don't quite cover enough. It feels so quiet and still in here now in comparison. It always gives Harry the slight creeps, as though someone is just going to pop up from around a corner and take him by surprise. Harry suspects that he's just seen too many horror films. Harry heads over to the stark, white showers and starts the water running, swiveling the dial until the water is hot enough for steam to begin filling the room. Then Harry pulls his sweat soaked t-shirt off over his head. The wet fabric sticks unpleasantly to his skin, resisting Harry's tug. Harry's running shorts and sneakers join the t-shirt on the tiled floor.

The warm water feels like heaven on Harry's flushed skin. A fine spray splashes Harry's face, trickling over his chin to ooze down his neck and collar bone. The warmth feels good on Harry's taut muscles. His legs still ache pleasantly from the run, the cramp in his chest now a mere twinge with each breath. The warm water helps his muscles to relax, alerts them to the fact that their done working so hard. For now, at least. Slowly, tense limbs begin to unwind. The spring uncurls. Harry squirts shampoo into his palm, the blue fluid trying to make an escape attempt over the edges of his hand. Harry runs the liquid through his damp hair, massaging his scalp in small, circular motions. He remembers the one time Petunia had given in and actually gotten Harry a professional haircut, perhaps thinking that a real hairstylist would be able to do something about Harry's unruly locks. The woman had smiled at Harry and placed him in a reclining chair. She had wrapped a towel around his neck and tilted his head back beneath a pleasant stream of warm water. As she had washed his hair, she had pressed perfectly manicured fingers into Harry's scalp, rubbing in gentle circles. It had felt so good. It doesn't feel quite the same when Harry does it himself, but he tries anyway. That had been a small, nice moment amongst so many bad ones. He likes to try to relive it.

Once all of the suds have left Harry's head to swirl down the drain, Harry reaches for the bar of soap on a little shelf. The soap is slick with water, its top layer beginning to dissolve beneath the moisture. Consequently, it merely slides between Harry's fingers, refusing to be grasped. The bar of soap shoots off the shelf and onto the tiled floor by Harry's feet. Harry sighs. He remembers his uncle Vernon once making a joke about not dropping the soap in prison. At the time, Harry had been too young to understand. Now, though, he gets the darkness of that joke. It's amazing really, that people are capable of laughing about such violence, such a violation. Harry wonders if wizard prison is the same. So many of the Death Eaters were sent to Azkaban after the war: Bellatrix Lestrange, the Carrows, Nott, Yaxley, Rowle. Their names start to blur together after a while. Harry remembers the descriptions he's heard of Azkaban: cold, hopeless, where all pleasant memories are sucked away and only the dark ones remain. It's as close to hell as Harry can imagine. Somehow, Harry can't imagine anyone feeling at all sexual in a place like that. Such an act would only add to the bad memories. Despite his dislike of the Malfoy family, Harry is glad they managed to escape a fate like that. Well, glad for Draco at least. Beneath all of the pride and jealousness and bullying, there's a hint of a good person buried within the blonde boy. It's just buried quite deep.

Harry considers masturbating briefly, but he's too tired to feel particularly sexual at the moment. Better to just go straight to breakfast. Harry turns off the water and trudges through the remaining clouds of steam to his clothes. One by one he pulls them on. Bit by bit he becomes a Gryffindor student once more. After the war, that transition takes a little work, a little forgetting. Back in the Great Hall, breakfast food is beginning to materialize onto clean plates. One of those plates has Harry's name on it. He heads back out into the early morning air, and walks across the grounds towards food.

To Harry's surprise, Hermione is already sitting at the Gryffindor table. Not Ron, though. Ron would never get up this early, not even if Voldemort decided to rise back up from the dead and insult his family. Ron says that he gave up sleep for months wandering around the woods looking for Hocruxes and he's darn well going to get that sleep now. Harry sees no reason to argue.

"Good morning," says Harry, taking the seat opposite Hermione.

"Morning, Harry," says Hermione cheerfully between sips of pumpkin juice. "You have a good run?"

"Yeah," Harry replies, loading his plate up with eggs and sausages. Running always makes him so hungry. "The sunrise was especially nice today. Lots of orange and yellow. Anything good in the paper?" Harry nods at the sheets of parchment spread out before Hermione. Harry can see a picture of a young boy on the front page, looking rather bored and occasionally reaching up to scratch his arm. It really must be rather dull to be a photograph, moving or otherwise.

"Well," says Hermione with a worried frown, "if by good you mean bad, then yes. This poor boy here's gone missing. They think he's been kidnapped or something since he wasn't the type to run away from home. His parents say that he'd been acting quite oddly before he vanished, too. Apparently his mom had caught him trying to break out of his window a few days before wearing a black cloak and a mask, but when she confronted him about it the next morning, he didn't remember a thing."

"Can I see?" asks Harry, his interest piqued. Hermione nods, handing over one of the sections of the Daily Times. Harry quickly scans the article.

**Young Elliot Fisher has gone missing late this Monday, September 7****th****. Elliot, age fifteen, was last seen at his residence on Murray lane that morning by his grandmother, Dorine. Mrs. Fisher describes Elliot as "a gentle soul" who "always behaved and did as he was told". However, according to his grandmother Dorine, Elliot had been acting rather strangely as of late. Dorine admitted: "He'd been acting so odd lately. I kept catching him wandering around going through our potion supplies and stuff. When I shook his shoulder, he'd just give me this perfectly blank look, like he couldn't see me. It was as if his brain had just, you know, checked out. So I'd give him a good shake and he'd just seem to snap out of it. His eyes would focus and he'd seem confused. He just had no idea what he'd been doing down there. We thought maybe he was just sleep walking or something, but he seemed wide awake. I mean, it was the middle of the day! No, something was definitely off." Sleep walking does indeed seem unlikely. But what else could have caused these trances. Not since the days of You-Know-Who have people behaved like this. But perhaps there is someone out there, even in this time of peace, willing to use the Imperius curse to achieve their ends. But why bother to Imperius this teenage boy? What could they possibly gain? Dorine's next words may provide a clue: "The morning he went missing I went up to his room to put his clean laundry away. Only when I opened the door, I saw Elliot half way out the window wearing this big, black cloak. He was wearing a mask, too. A black mask that covered his entire face, but I could still see that it was definitely my Elliot. I called out to him, asking what the heck he was doing, but it was like he couldn't hear me. He wasn't just ignoring me, I could tell. Elliot's a good boy and he always listens to me. He was just checked out again. His body was just acting on its own. Before I could stop him, out he went. By the time I got to the window to see where he was off to, he was just gone. Like he'd never been there. It wasn't natural, I tell you." Masked men wandering the streets, a boy acting not of his own free will. Could it be that dark forces are stirring once more? Or is this simply the case of a rebellious teenager running away from home? We shall just have to wait and see. The Auror Office has refused to comment on the matter aside from saying that they are on the case. What aren't they telling us? What do they know that they feel they need to hide? Perhaps they're just embarrassed that they don't have any leads yet, but maybe it's more. If you have any information on the whereabouts of Elliot Fisher or what has happened to him, please owl the Ministry of Magic Auror's Department immediately. We appreciate your cooperation on this matter.**

By the time Harry's eyes reach the bottom of the page, a frown has taken over his face. This is just the kind of thing that he's been waiting for. It was all too easy, too good to be true. The end of a war does not mean that peace must follow; it just gives people a moment to breathe before the next leg of the race begins.

"Do you think-?" Harry begins. He doesn't even need to finish the sentence, though. Hermione immediately understands what he's getting at.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "The paper suggests the Imperius curse, but it doesn't really sound like that to me. Victims of the Imperius curse hide it better. They act pretty much like their normal selves except that their goals are being decided for them. This boy was acting completely out of it. Besides, you can't cure the Imperius curse by shaking someone hard enough. No, I think this is something different."

"Maybe we should look into this, go talk to the family or something," Harry suggests, staring down with newfound interest at the image of the teen. He looks so normal, so average. Why would someone want to control someone like him? It would make sense to control someone with connections, someone who works at the Ministry of Magic perhaps, but why a teen lounging around his house on summer vacation? It makes no sense. Hermione's expression darkens, worry filling her deep brown eyes.

"Harry, no," she says firmly. "This is none of our business. Leave it to the Aurors. They're smart people and highly trained. They'll figure this out." She must see through Harry's expression that he's unconvinced since she goes on to add: "Harry, Voldemort is gone. The war is over. There's nothing to worry about anymore. All of the Death Eaters are safely locked up in Azkaban. I'm sure this is just an isolated incident. Really, Harry, I know you've gotten used to playing the hero and all, but this is none of our business. Besides, we're at school now. You know we're not allowed off campus. The Aurors will deal with it. They will. Promise me, Harry that you'll leave this alone. I never should have shown that article to you." Harry looks up into Hermione's steely face, and then, with a sigh, he nods.

"Alright," he concedes. "You're right. I know you are. I'll leave it alone, alright?" Hermione looks relieved.

"Thank you, Harry!" she exclaims. "Now then, did you finish your essay for Transfiguration yet?"

Up at the teacher's table, seats are beginning to fill up. Some of those seats will never be filled, though. Not with the people who should sit there, anyways. More of the war's victims, yet another sign that things are irreversibly different now. Dumbledore gone, Snape gone. So many people dead, vanished forever. The world moves on, though. Dumbledore and Snape have been replaced. McGonagall sits in the large chair in the center now, having accepted the job as Headmistress. Off to her left sits the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Isolde Hunter. Professor Hunter has chin length sandy blond hair, bright blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across his sharp nose. At twenty-two years old, he is by far the youngest teacher here at Hogwarts. Apparently it was a bit hard to find someone willing to teach in the school where the final battle had been fought. No one wanted to talk about defensive spells in the building where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was killed. So far, though, Harry likes Professor Hunter's class. The man is young, but he seems to know what he's talking about, and he's clearly passionate about the subject. When the man starts talking about dark magic his eyes light up and his voice gets deep and husky. This, combined with Professor Hunter's very good looks, has quickly made him the crush of most of the girls in his classes. Harry can understand why. There is something appealing about the young man, something almost dark, a slight edge to his easy charm and wit. It's definitely… attractive.

Careful to hide his thoughts from Hermione, Harry wonders what the best way to sneak off campus would be. By broom maybe? Or perhaps just go through the tunnels to Hogsmead and then apparate from there? Either way, there's no way he's going to let this whole Elliot Fisher issue drop. There's something going on there, something that leaves a bad taste in Harry's mouth and twists his stomach into painful knots. If there's one thing Harry's learned from the war, it's to trust his instincts. No, he definitely has to find out more, even if that does mean lying to Hermione. What she doesn't know won't hurt her.

From up at the staff table, blue eyes are fixed on Harry, languidly taking in his every move.

*Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! Please review with any feedback you may have! Also, if any of you have any requests for things you would like to see in this story, please just let me know and I will keep them in mind moving forward. I already have most of this story planned, but there is a little wiggle room. Thank you all so much for reading! :)*


	2. Chapter 2

Watching, Waiting Ch. 2

*Author's Note: Sorry it took me a whole week to upload this chapter, guys! I've had the worst cold this last week, and I've just been feeling too snotty and crappy to write until now. Don't worry, though. My updates will be much quicker now. I want to thank everyone who's reviewed this story; I really appreciate hearing from you guys! :) I hope you like this next chapter. Enjoy!*

"Been walking, you've been hiding,  
And you look half dead half the time.  
Monitoring you, like machines do,  
You've still got it, I'm just keeping an eye"

-Imogen Heap, _Headlock_

Gentle breathing surrounds Harry on all sides, broken occasionally by Ron's loud snores. By now, Harry is the only boy left awake in the 8th year dormitory. It's so late at night now that technically it's morning, but Harry hasn't slept yet. Time moves strangely at this time of night, sluggishly, like a person wading through mud. The clock's ticking seems to almost slow as each second loosely interprets its designated length of time. In these late to early hours, time gets to designate its own course, measure out its own steps. Three A.M. messes with people's brains, blurring thoughts and weighing down on weary minds. Harry can feel the exhaustion in his very bones, can feel the weight on his eyelids as they draw magnetically towards each other. Just an hour ago Harry was wide awake and ready to go, impatient for time to pass. Now, however, the power of three A.M. has claimed him. He can't sleep, though. Not now. Now is his only chance to sneak out of the castle unnoticed.

Bare feet land silently on the cold, stone floor as Harry eases out of bed. He's already fully dressed, having skipped pajamas entirely in favor of a quieter exit. Harry tiptoes across the dormitory, careful to avoid the room's squeaky floorboard. Can't have anyone waking up and seeing him. The soft creak as the door to the dormitory eases open sounds impossibly loud in the quiet of the room. No one stirs, though.

The door clicks shut behind Harry, leaving him in the empty stillness of the hall. Harry pauses here for a moment, exhaling a relieved breath. Then he places the tip of his wand on the top of his head. A sensation like ice water slithering down over Harry's skin causes him to shiver. It feels as though a cool liquid is streaming out of the tip of his wand and dripping down over his flesh, but his skin is dry to the touch. It just can't be seen anymore. Invisible fingers caress an equally invisible cheek. Harry is gone, visible no more. In his place stands empty air. The Disillusionment charm has worked.

Normally Harry would take his invisibility cloak, but he needs to be agile tonight. It's hard to climb and maneuver with lots of drapey fabric hanging all around you, getting in your way. Harry creeps quietly down the steps and across the Gryffindor common room. The portrait hole swings open, then shut again. The Fat Lady sleeps on. To anyone watching, it would seem that the door had just done this on its own. After all, no one either went out nor came in. No one who could be seen anyways.

The castle feels incredibly still and empty around Harry as he begins to descend towards the third floor. It's as though the very walls of the building are as asleep and silent as its occupants. Harry almost feels like an intruder creeping about here at night. At one point, that thought never would have crossed Harry's mind. Before the war Harry always felt welcome and at home at Hogwarts, no matter how late the hour. Now, though, Harry feels that some part of him has outgrown the school; the part of him that died and then came back to life, the part of him that saw Lupin and Tonks' mangled bodies lying still on the stone floor. That part of Harry doesn't know how to go back to innocent school days. He wishes he did, though. For everyone's sake.

Harry is on the fifth floor now, his feet carrying him forwards on autopilot while his thoughts wander. Beside him sits an empty stretch of wall. Once, if he willed it hard enough, a door would have appeared there. That door could've led anywhere: a bathroom, a storage closet, a place to practice Defense Against the Dark Arts in private, somewhere to hide all of the school's secrets. Now, though, that potential is gone, burned up in a scourge of Fiendfyre along with Crabbe's scorched body. For a moment, Harry remembers the flames, billowing towards him like hunting dogs, tracking his scent with an unknowing, unseeing purpose. Shapes had risen and fallen amongst the fire like waves in the stormiest of seas. Objects hidden in the room for centuries had been consumed by the fire, transitioning from physical shapes into mere fuel. Harry remembers Ron and Hermione's shouts to hurry up, remembers Malfoy's pale, terrified face. He remembers scooping the other boy up, cradling the Slytherin to him. He remembers the flames reflected in the terrified Slytherin's black pupils. In that moment there had been no house rivalries, no petty feuds. In that moment there was just life and death, and Harry had chosen life.

Harry stands there for a moment in the darkness, staring at the blank stretch of wall. He half expects to see some charring around the edges of the stone, perhaps a little wisp of smoke staining the surface a darker grey, but there's nothing. There's no sign that the Room of Requirement ever existed here let alone burned to the ground. The wall looks clean and new. It's been given a fresh start just like everyone else after the war.

Something hard and thin presses gently against the top of Harry's head, flattening a few unruly strands of dark hair in its wake.

"Finite," murmurs a deep voice. It feels as though gravity has been reversed, liquid flowing up Harry's body as though towards a magnet. Inch by inch, starting with the tips of his toes and ending with the top of his head, Harry is revealed.

"Mr. Potter," drawls an amused voice, "a little late to be out of bed, don't you think? It's past curfew."

Harry turns around to meet a pair of deep, indigo eyes. Professor Hunter is standing less than a foot away from him, his wand raised. Harry almost gasps, taken aback to suddenly find himself mere inches from the other man. His heart beat quickens, fluttering in his chest. This close Harry can make out every detail of Professor Hunter's handsome face. The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher has very angular features, with sharp, high cheekbones and a strong jaw. His deep blue eyes are almond-shaped, and are ringed with surprisingly dark eyelashes for someone with such light hair. His blond eyebrows are full and straight, arching up only slightly at the outer corners. His nose is straight and narrow, with a light dappling of innocent freckles. A strand of chin-length blond hair has fallen into Professor Hunter's face. Harry is overcome with a strong urge to reach up and swipe it away. He doesn't, though. Something about Professor Hunter's face reminds him of someone. Harry can't quite place whom the man resembles, but a definite sense of déjà vu grips Harry as he gazes upon the man's features. Harry wishes he could figure out why.

Professor Hunter withdraws his wand from Harry's head, tucking it away into the folds of his steel grey robes.

"That was an excellent Disillusionment charm, Potter," comments the professor casually. "If you had encountered anyone other than me it definitely would have held up. Unfortunately for you, though, that kind of thing is my specialty." Professor Hunter's words are scolding, typical teacher disciplining a student phrases. But his tone isn't angry or disappointed. He sounds interested, almost amused at finding Harry like this. It's as though this is a game he's just won; like a child playing tag who's just managed to make someone else 'it'. In this moment Harry is struck by how young Professor Hunter really is, barely a few years older than Harry himself. Harry wonders what it's like for the young man to be so close in age to his students yet separated by the authority of being a teacher. He wonders if it's lonely.

"Lucky me," mutters Harry as he continues to watch his teacher closely, trying to gauge whether or not he's actually in trouble for this. So far, it doesn't seem like it. Professor Hunter hasn't moved, remaining just a hair's breadth away from Harry in the dark corridor. It's slightly awkward, talking so closely like this, but neither of them steps back. Harry can practically feel the other man's words against his skin, can smell the slight musk of his cologne. Despite his calm tone, Harry's heart is pounding in his chest. He's painfully aware of the other man's proximity, notices every slight movement the other man makes.

"Yes," replies Professor Hunter, the corner of his lips quirking up into a slight smirk, "lucky you." Harry finds himself watching the other man's full lips move as he speaks, observing the enticing way they pout around the word 'you'. A mischievous twinkle sparks in the teacher's eyes as he catches the younger boy's glance, the way dark pupils dilate within emerald irises. Professor Hunter leans in, placing his lips less than an inch away from the shell of Harry's ear.

"I'm feeling generous tonight, Potter," he whispers, his voice suddenly low and husky. "Run along back to bed now. Don't let me catch you out here after curfew again." The cat has released the mouse, waiting for it to run around entertainingly a little more before catching it up in sharp claws once again. Goosebumps erupt on the skin of Harry's neck as his teacher's breath ghosts over his flesh. Quickly, Harry nods.

Professor Hunter pulls back from Harry, giving the boy one last victorious look before turning around sharply and striding off down the corridor. He doesn't look back. Harry just stands there, rooted to the spot in mild shock until the other man is out of sight. What had just happened? Harry stands there silently for a solid thirty seconds, allowing his thoughts to reorganize themselves into some semblance of normalcy. Then he takes off down the hallway once more. He's never been very good at following the rules before; he sees no reason to start now.

Harry feels slightly unbalanced as he hurries through Hogwarts, as though something has knocked him askew. He can't get Professor Hunter's face out of his head. Every time he blinks, he sees the other man's features imprinted on his eyelids. There's something so familiar about the other man. He really reminds Harry of someone; something about the confident way he holds himself, the graceful way he moves. If Harry could just pause and think about it for a moment, really focus on it, he's sure he could figure out whom Professor Hunter is so similar to. He doesn't have that kind of time right now, though. He has a goal now, a purpose: he needs to focus on that now. Honestly, it's a relief to be moving towards something again. It's easier to be in motion, to work towards some greater purpose. Standing still in the aftermath is so much harder. Better to be moving, to focus on something other than what's been lost along the way.

Stairs slip by beneath Harry's feet, and before he knows it he's arrived at the third floor corridor. Up ahead sits a statue of a one-eyed witch. Her back is arched, misshapen due to a combination of old age and gravity. In one hand she's clutching a staff made to look like gnarled and twisted wood. In the other hand she's holding a dagger, naked and unsheathed. Harry hurries over to the statue, relieved at making it here without any further mishaps. Harry lifts his wand, resting its tip on the stone of the witch's hump.

"Well, well, look who's out of bed," drawls an all too familiar voice, and Harry groans, cursing his bad luck. How many people can Harry encounter out here in one night? Too late, Harry remembers that he never renewed his Disillusionment charm. Harry turns to face the owner of that voice, lowering his wand. Draco Malfoy steps from the shadows before him, pale as a ghost, his ice blond hair looking almost white in the faint moonlight.

"I'm not the only one apparently," says Harry, allowing his frustration to seep into his words. "What are you doing out of bed at this time of night?"

"I-well," Draco stutters here, an act uncharacteristic of the usually cocky boy, "I couldn't sleep. Bad dreams. Too many- well, you know." Draco trails off here, looking down at the floor rather than face Harry as he admits these embarrassingly intimate facts. Harry is taken aback, surprised at the Slytherin's blunt honesty. Draco is trusting him here not to make fun of him or to use this information against him. This is probably the closest to an apology or a thanks Harry is every going to get from the blonde boy: this civility. For a moment, Harry is just silent, unsure how to respond to this kind of intimacy from a boy whom he spent years squabbling with. Then he nods, choosing the non-verbal approach. He knows exactly what Draco is talking about, knows exactly what memories and regrets must plague him.

"Besides," continues Draco, eager to move past that embarrassingly open moment, "I could ask you the same thing."

"You could," says Harry. He leaves it at that, though, making it clear that this is the only answer Draco is going to get from him. An awkward silence descends over the pair, weighing heavily on both of them as they avoid looking into each other's eyes, then Draco coughs.

"Right, um, well, I've actually been meaning to talk to you, Potter," he says slowly, as though each word has to be dragged reluctantly from his throat.

"Why?" asks Harry, his curiosity suddenly piqued. He can't think of any reason the blonde should seek him out. The time has long since passed for apologies or thank yous. Those things have just been an unspoken agreement between them for months now, ever since Harry testified at the Malfoy's trials. Draco had stopped picking on Harry, stopped insulting him and starting fights, and that had been it. That had been as much of an apology as either of them needed or could stomach. Harry sees no reason why the other boy would break down and actually verbalize any of that now.

"I just- well, I guess I'm just here to tell you to be careful," states Draco, still deeply fascinated with the pattern of the stones on the floor.

"Be careful?" Harry repeats, completely bewildered. "Why do I need to be careful?" Draco just stands there for a moment, a frown twisting his sharp face. He's thinking hard, processing the risks and benefits of explaining his words further to this boy who was once his enemy. Then, Draco looks up, staring straight into Harry's eyes. A decision has been made. Draco takes a step forward, closing the distance between them.

"Things are in motion," he whispers, his words barely audible. Harry has to lean into the other boy to make them out. "Things I can't talk about. Not here. Maybe not anywhere. But there are whispers, rumors that- that can't be true: rumors that the Dark Lord has risen once again." It's as though someone has just dumped a bucket of ice water over Harry's head. The hair on the back of Harry's neck stands on end as his flesh erupts in a sea of goosebumps. Adrenaline courses through his system, making his muscles tense beneath his skin. In an instant Harry is on edge, ready for battle. There's no battle here, though, just a frightened looking boy staring at Harry like he's hope.

"How do you know?" Harry whispers, his voice suddenly just as quiet as Draco's had been. These are words that cannot be heard, a conversation that is not safe to have out here in the open.

"I don't. Not really," replies Draco, grey eyes fixed intently on Harry's face. "Like I said, they're just rumors. But they're rumors from dangerous people, people who would be the ones to know if they really were true. And people, people who were on our side in the war, well, _his _side, you know, _his _followers, they've been meeting. In secret, in the dark. That much I can be sure of. They're gathering, and they have plans. Plans I would be very surprised don't have something to do with you." Harry looks straight into Draco's stormy gaze, seeing the fear there. Draco's family has been deemed traitors now. After the end of the war, the Malfoys gave information on others to lessen the blow to themselves. Money and information had managed to buy their way out of Azkaban, but it had cost them the respect of the other Death Eaters. If what remained of the Death Eaters really were meeting again, plotting revenge, then the Malfoy family would be in trouble. Draco isn't lying to him; Harry can tell. This threat is real.

Harry turns to the statue of the one-eyed witch once more, tapping the witch's hump with his wand.

"Dissendium," he mutters, and the statue creaks, ancient stone groaning in annoyance as it shifts out of the way, revealing a dark passageway beyond.

"What are you doing?" asks Draco, taken aback.

"I'm going to go find out if it's true," replies Harry, stepping into the gloomy passageway. It smells a bit musty, as though water has found a way in somehow.

"What?" exclaims Draco indignantly. "That doesn't sound like being careful to me, Potter. Were you completely ignoring me two seconds ago?"

"No," Harry replies calmly, beginning to walk off down the tunnel. He has to stoop just a little to avoid scraping his head on a few of the more low hanging rocks. "I was listening. I just think some things are more important than being careful. Careful is not how we won the war; we won it by taking risks, with gambles that paid off. We won the war with luck, not care. I see no reason to change tactics now just because he's managed to rise from the dead for the billionth time." To Harry's surprise, Harry hears footsteps following him. Draco trots along behind Harry, jogging a little to catch up.

"What are you doing?" asks Harry, startled.

"I'm coming with you," declares Draco. "You're the Boy-Who-Lived, the only person who's killed the Dark Lord, not just once, but multiple times. I'd be an idiot if I just let you wander out there by yourself and get killed. Then who would handle this whole mess? Besides," continues Draco, his voice softening, "a life for a life. I owe you, Potter." Harry doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything. His silence is enough acceptance, though. The pair continues on down the tunnel, not speaking save for the occasional swear word when a head smacks a particularly low hanging rock. The tunnel grows narrower and narrower as they progress, and soon the two boys have to walk practically bent in half to fit. It's uncomfortable, and Harry can feel the slight tinglings of claustrophobia flickering around his consciousness, making him anxious.

"Where are we going anyways?" asks Draco, breaking the silence.

"Oh, just to do a little breaking and entering," replies Harry casually, carefully hopping over a hole in the floor. "A boy named Elliot Fisher vanished a few days ago, maybe you read about it in the Daily Prophet. He had been acting weird before he died, acting without his own knowledge and going out late at night wearing a dark cloak and a mask. I had a bad feeling about the whole thing before, but now that you've told me what you know I'm certain it's related. Something is horribly wrong with this whole Elliot Fisher thing, and I'm sure if I could just get into his room and take a look around I could figure out what it is."

"So you, the Ministry's Golden boy, are going to break into some nice family's house and ransack their missing son's room?" asks Draco dryly.

"My way of putting it sounds better," quips Harry.

"You know, Potter, for the leader of the supposedly light side in the war and all that, you're a surprisingly bad influence."

"Malfoy, during the war I broke into a Gringotts' vault and stole their security dragon on the way out. You're really surprised that I'd sneak into someone's house?"

"Well yeah," replies Draco doubtfully, "but that was all for the greater good or some such thing. Much less rebellious teenager going through a phase."

"So is this," points out Harry.

"I guess," admits Draco. "Who would've guessed at all the bad things you have to do to be a good guy? Why, you all are practically like us bad guys."

"Not 'us'," Harry says, his tone shifting from joking to serious once more. "You're not part of them anymore. I don't think you really ever were. You had chances to do bad things, horrible things, and you didn't. You didn't give me away when they asked you to confirm they'd caught me, and you didn't murder Dumbledore when you had the chance. You're not a bad guy; your family was just on the wrong side. What else could you do?" The pair just keeps walking in awkward silence for a moment, the conversation having steered dangerously towards sincerity once more.

"Now here I am, doing something bad because of a good guy," Draco jokes.

"Crazy world, isn't it?" replies Harry, and even though it's a joke, he means it more than he thought he would.

"Oh, yes. Definitely," agrees Draco. "A crazy, crazy world."

*Author's Note: Aand chapter two is complete! Honestly, I was planning on having Draco just warn Harry and then leave, but then as I was writing Draco just wanted to come along. Who was I to stop him? I think it'll be nice to have Harry be able to banter with someone a little once he's broken into the Fisher home. Also, guys, I was wondering what you think about maybe having Tom and Draco fight over Harry a little; give Tom some competition. What do you think? Do you like that idea or would you rather just keep Draco and Harry as friends? I haven't decided. Anyways, thank you all for reading this most recent chapter! Please review with any feedback you may have. Thanks! :)*


	3. Chapter 3

Watching, Waiting Ch. 3

*Author's Note: A nice, fast update for you guys this time! I want to thank everyone for continuing to read this story, and I want to especially thank everyone who's reviewed. I love hearing from you guys. Enjoy chapter three!*

"Things are not always, things are not always how they seem  
Will you be ready (will you be ready?)"

-Imogen Heap, _2-1_

"Come on, Potter, put your back into it. I'm still like a foot away from the latch," demands Draco, his fingers extended before him, reaching. He's currently wavering several feet above Harry's head, his feet cradled in Harry's palms as the brunette hoists him up. The pair is outside a cookie-cutter suburban home. The house is two stories tall with generic off-white paint and generic finishings. The lawn leading up to this house is perfectly manicured and tamed, just like all of the other houses on this block. The only thing differentiating this house from any of the other dwellings in the neighborhood is the number on its address plate.

"Maybe if you weren't so damn heavy," grumbles Harry, straining to lift Draco higher.

"Muscle weight," retorts Draco. "I can't help that I'm so ripped."

"Yeah, right," mutters Harry sarcastically. "I'm sure that's it. You're going to be the next Arnold Schwarzenegger."

"Who?"

"Oh, right. He's a muggle actor. Guess you wouldn't know him." Sometimes Harry forgets that the world is divided in two like this: magical on one side and muggle on the other. It always takes him a while to calibrate his thinking for each world; telephones there, owls here. Football there, Quidditch here. His past there, his present here. He's never allowed to forget that polarization for long, though.

"This isn't going to work," declares Draco, giving up his attempt to reach the second story window. "We're just going to have to sneak up the stairs inside. You know, we should have brought a broomstick."

"Right," grumbles Harry, dropping Draco gratefully to the ground. "I'll keep that in mind next time I break into someone's home."

"You know, for a guy who successfully broke into a Gringotts' vault, you're not very prepared for this," points out Draco, sounding quite cheerful about this fact.

"Well luckily there are no dragons guarding this place," retorts Harry. "Come on, we'll sneak in through the back door. It's less likely to have as many anti-intruder charms on it." The two boys creep around the side of the house, hunching over to stay low to the ground and out of sight. This is the kind of neighborhood rife with bored housewives who have nothing better to do than spy on their neighbors. It wouldn't do to be spotted here. There are only so many people two boys can obliviate in one go.

The back yard looks just as bland as the front. A neatly mown lawn spreads out in all directions, its borders defined by tufts of carefully trimmed bushes. A small patch of tulips sits in one corner, giving the space a little color. Two lawn chairs sit in the middle of the grass facing away from the house. Based on the cobwebs clinging to them, they haven't been used in quite some time. Harry and Draco tiptoe up the steps to the back porch, slowly inching across it to the house's backdoor. Harry pulls out his wand, pointing it towards the metal of the doorknob.

"Alohomora," he whispers. Instantly, the lock on the door clicks open. Clearly this house's security isn't very tight. Draco reaches out to turn the handle, but Harry shakes his head, stopping him.

"Hold on," he murmurs. "Let me hide us first." Harry raises his wand over Draco's head, silently casting a disillusionment charm. Draco's body vanishes, invisibility melting over him like it has a physical form. Then Harry performs the spell on himself. Harry peers down, examining the air where his hands used to be. It worked. Disillusionment charms may only rarely cause complete invisibility, but when combined with darkness the effect is enough. No one looking at this porch would guess that two boys are standing there.

Something hard stabs Harry in the cheek.

"Ouch!" he yelps, indignant. "What the fuck, Malfoy!"

"Sorry," says Draco, not sounding sorry in the slightest. "Just making sure that's where you are. This whole invisibility thing is weird. I feel like I'm just talking to myself here."

"Then I recommend you shut up," advises Harry. "Now come on, let's head inside."

"Hold on," interjects Draco, and Harry suddenly feels fingers prodding his chest searchingly. Invisible fingers feel along the fabric of Harry's robes, inching sideways until they've found his arm. Then the digits grope downwards, sliding over the skin of Harry's palm and interlacing their fingers together tightly.

"I won't be able to know where you are otherwise," mumbles Draco, sounding slightly embarrassed. Harry wonders briefly if Draco's invisible cheeks are blushing beneath his disillusionment charm. Harry nods, then realizes that Draco can't see the gesture.

"Alright," he says, then slowly reaches out with his free hand to turn the knob and inch the door to the Fisher house open. The door creaks slightly, but other than that nothing happens as the pair slip into the dark house. No alarms go off, no curses blast them into unconsciousness. This is a house that has embraced the fact that the wizarding world is enjoying a period of peace. It's trusting, unprotected, like a hedgehog exposing its soft underbelly. Harry almost feels guilty taking advantage of that trust. Almost. He is here to do good, after all.

The two boys creep quietly through the house, staying close to the walls where Harry was once told that floorboards are less likely to creak. It's not hard to find the stairs to the second floor; the house's layout is quite straight forward and it isn't very large. Harry tiptoes up the steps dragging Draco along after him. He pauses after each step, listening for any movement in the hallway before them. The house is silent, though, devoid of any sign of life. Anyone here must be fast asleep, safely oblivious to the physical world around them. When the two boys reach the top of the stairs Harry stops, causing Draco to almost crash into him.

"Homenum revelio," whispers Harry. A small, golden ball of light expands in the air before him, illuminating the shadowy hallway. The ball pulses once, then floats off down the corridor, turning to sink into one of the doors on the left. That must be where Elliot Fisher's grandmother is sleeping.

"Muffliato," Harry mutters, pointing his wand at the door. Now they don't have to be worried about the elderly woman hearing them and waking up.

"She can't hear us now," says Harry to the invisible Slytherin behind him. "Come on, one of these doors must lead to Elliot's room."

"My money's on that one at the end of the hall," says Draco dryly. "The one with the sign that says: 'Elliot's room. Keep out.'"

"Right. I knew that."

"Obviously…"

The pair strides off down the hall, still holding hands. When they reach the door Harry stops, casting several diagnostic spells on the wooden frame. There aren't any defensive spells there, though, no booby-traps for an unwary burglar. Harry swings the door open.

"Lumos."

The room looks like that of a typical teenage boy. Clothes lie strewn about the floor, crumpled and unkempt. The walls are painted a cream color probably chosen by Elliot's grandmother, but most of that is covered with posters of Quidditch teams and wizard bands anyways. There's a twin-sized bed against one wall, a chest of drawers at its foot, and a desk opposite it. The room isn't big, and between the two of them it shouldn't take long to search. Harry tugs his hand free of Draco's.

"Let's split up," he suggests. "You search the drawers and under the bed, and I'll tackle that mess on his desk."

"Alright," agrees Draco, striding over and tugging open one of the bureau's drawers. A handful of socks float upwards through thin air, clenched in an invisible fist. It's an odd sight. Harry shakes his head, focusing back on the task at hand. Elliot's desk is a complete mess. Loose papers coat the desk's wooden surface, hiding it so thoroughly that it takes Harry a moment to figure out that the desk is even wood at all. Some of the papers are articles or pictures torn from magazines: an article on the newest Nimbus 3000, a schedule for an upcoming concert, an article on how to get in shape for the ladies. Some of the papers, though, are written in what Harry assumes must be Elliot's own hand. There are plenty of loose papers floating around that look like old homework assignments, crumpled and already graded. The grades scrawled on the essays are average, nothing to make the boy stand out either positively or negatively. Harry can see no reason here why Elliot would be the target of someone trying to control him. This boy didn't seem to have anything worth manipulating him for, nothing worth taking. It just makes no sense; why would someone choose this boy as their victim? What could they possibly gain aside from tips on how to get the best abs?

Something soft smacks Harry's back, clinging to his shoulder. Harry reaches up and drags it off of him, holding it up so that he can see what it is. A pair of grey boxer-briefs floats in the air above the desk.

"Please tell me these are clean," groans Harry, throwing the underwear away hurriedly and wiping his fingers off on his trousers.

"I'm not convinced any of this stuff is really clean," comments Draco with disgust, chucking a pair greying socks onto the carpet.

"Hey!" protests Harry. "We've got to try and keep everything where it is. It can't look like anyone else has been here."

"Have you seen the state of this floor?" asks Draco. "I doubt anyone is going to notice one more pair of socks in all this mess." Harry says nothing, but silently, he agrees. This boy really didn't seem to care about tidiness. At all.

Harry turns his attention back to the desk, shifting aside a pile of nudie magazines. A busty woman winks at Harry from one of the magazine covers, squeezing her ample breasts together with both hands. Harry flushes, quickly looking away and covering the woman with an essay on the uses of fairy dust in potion making. As Harry is moving the magazines, though, a small slip of paper falls out from between the porno's slick pages. Harry reaches for it, unfolding the crinkled parchment.

**11:30 p.m., The Milk of the Serpent, 546 Nocturn Alley**

The handwriting is different than on the rest of Elliot's papers, elegant and neat. There's something old-fashioned about the lettering, like the swirly script found on official documents in the 17th century. Even though the note looks slightly hurried, the person who wrote this clearly cares about their penmanship.

"Hey, do you know anything about a place called 'The Milk of the Serpent' on Nocturn Alley," Harry asks Draco, frowning down at the note in his hand.

"Yeah," replies Draco, pausing briefly in his ransacking of Elliot's dresser. "It's a tavern. Got a real nasty reputation. You won't find a single person in there with good intentions, that's for sure. A lot of dark wizards meet there when they have business meetings of a more… sensitive nature. It's a good place to meet without being overheard. The people in there are too dangerous to eaves drop on, even on each other. My father has been there once or twice, to, um, sort a few deals out. Why?"

"There's a note here with that bar's address on it," explains Harry. "There's a time, too. 11:30 p.m. Looks like someone was arranging a meeting with Elliot there."

"No meeting at The Milk of the Serpent is a good meeting," says Draco ominously, sounding worried. "I can't picture some straight-laced teenage boy just waltzing in there. That place means business, serious business. Only people really messed up in dangerous things meet there. Even I would hesitate before going in there alone." Harry frowns at these words, and ominous feeling clenching in his gut. The pieces of the puzzle are starting to come together, and Harry doesn't like the image they're making.

"Oh, crap. Hey, Potter, come and look at this," exclaims Draco suddenly. Harry turns, walking over to the dresser. A thin, black shape floats up and out of one of the drawers. It's a mask. As Harry reaches out to touch it, fingers skimming over its smooth surface, he realizes that it's made out of metal. The mask is big enough to cover someone's entire face, with a small, angular hole for each eye and a long slit above where someone's mouth would sit. The features carved into the mask are perfectly blank, its expression stony and cold.

"This mean anything to you?" Harry asks, running his fingertip along the mask's sharp nose.

"Only through rumors, whispers and rumors," murmurs Draco, his voice close to Harry's ear. Whispers of masked men meeting in the dark, in the shadows. Stories of their hatred, of their anger, of their need for revenge, their longing for power. Men whose faces are unknown, identities hidden behind plates of metal, their expressions forever cold and impassive and unchanging. Their anger is hot though, their fury burning. They lost before, their leader taken from them, but they will not lose this time, not again. The brands on their arms have just turned to scars now, but they remember. Their loyalty is not forgotten; they will serve their master even now, even after he's long since dead and gone. To them, the war is not over; it's just on hiatus. The battle will begin again. Peace is just a comforting story people tell themselves. It can't last forever.

"How can you tell it's one of theirs?" Harry asks. He doesn't need to specify who 'they' is.

"Here, on the underside," says Draco, flipping the mask over. Inside, on the bottom corner of the mask is a small brand, a maker's mark. Three serpents twine together, their interlaced bodies forming a neat circle. In the middle of this circle is a symbol that almost looks like a cross, but the top of it is a loop instead of just a straight line.

"It's the Egyptian symbol 'Ankh'. It represents eternal life," explains Draco. "The rumor is that the group has adopted it as their crest to celebrate the Dark Lord's reincarnation." Draco's voice sounds thin here, tinged with fear.

"Why not just use the Dark Mark?" asks Harry.

"I'm not sure, really," admits Draco. "I think it's to show that this time it's different. Like, they're not going to lose again. Kind of like a rebirth of not just the Dark Lord, but also their entire group. I'm just guessing here, though. I'm not even sure the Dark Lord is really back. It's all just heresay, just words."

"I can't imagine how it could be true," Harry murmurs, more to himself really than for Draco's ears. "When we defeated Voldemort we were really thorough. We tracked down every last bit of him, every segment of his shattered soul. We did our homework. I can't imagine that we missed anything. We examined every memory of Voldemort's past we could get our hands on, learned all of his little habits and ways. He definitely only made seven horcruxes. He had a thing for that number: the most powerfully magical number. It clicked with his ego to have his soul split that many times. I can't imagine him deviating from that. And I was supposed to be the seventh: the most special. By taking out the one person destined to kill him he would be sealing his immortality. To make that the kill necessary to make his seventh horcrux would practically be like poetry, and Voldemort cared about symbolism. Underneath all of the brutality he really liked all of that pomp and ceremony. It meant something to him. I can't see him deviating from that, and without that there's no way for him to be alive now. None. I saw what would happen to him in the afterlife, and there's no coming back from that. No way."

Draco just listens to all of this in silence, absorbing this information, taking it in. He had served Voldemort for years, had listened to his father describe him for his entire life, and he had never heard anyone talk about the man like this. No one had ever known Voldemort so well as the boy who killed him, except maybe Dumbledore. Perhaps there is a little poetry in that fact, as well.

"What's it like?" Draco asks softly. "To be dead. What happens to you?"

"I'm not sure I really know 100%," answers Harry honestly. "I was in more of a transitional place. Where I was I could choose to move on, to something, I don't know what, to death, or I could return here, to life. I chose to live. I don't know where it would have taken me if I'd chosen otherwise."

"What was this transitional place like?" presses Draco, his curiosity piqued. Death had been all around during the war; he had come face to face with it over and over during those few long months. Dumbledore had died, not at Draco's own hand, but through Draco's cowardice, his inability to accept the older man's offer of protection and safety. Crabbe is dead, his flesh burned away before Draco's very eyes. He wonders where they are now, what they've moved on to. He wonders what he himself, someday, will move on to.

"At first it was just white, everywhere," explains Harry patiently, thinking back. He understands why Draco is asking, how the other boy's conscience burns with guilt for those who died during the war. "Then, slowly, shapes began to form, almost like they'd always been there. For me, it looked a lot like King's Cross Station. It took me a while to realize that, though. At first, it just looked kind of familiar. I was given a choice: board a train onwards, or go back. I chose to go back. But I don't know how helpful this description will be. I got the impression that that place is different for everyone, that it was all just happening inside my head. I think it was only King's Cross Station because that's what I made it."

"I see," murmurs Draco, picturing it. For a moment the pair just stands there in silence, contemplating Harry's description, what happens after one's life has been used up and one's time is depleted.

"We should go," says Harry gently. "It's going to be light soon and we need to get back to the castle. We'll take the note and the mask with us. We might need them."

"Alright," agrees Draco. He may have nodded, too, but Harry has no way of knowing. The two join hands and disapparate with a loud crack.

*Author's Note: And the mystery progresses! I hope you guys have enjoyed this most recent addition. Please review with any feedback or requests you may have. Also, I've heard back from many of you about whether or not you think Draco should become part of a romantic triangle with Tom and Harry. Many of you liked the idea of a little competition, but some of you just wanted them to remain friends. So I have chosen... not to tell you guys which way I'm going to go! You're just going to have to wait and see whether or not Draco and Harry's relationship becomes romantic. Thank you all so much for reading!*


	4. Chapter 4

Watching, Waiting Ch. 4

*Author's Note: Hi guys! Another reasonably fast update for you all! I want to thank everyone who's been following along with this story! I love to hear your feedback about how things are progressing! :) I'm glad I've got you guys curious about what's going to happen next. Enjoy!*

"I'm dying to know what's in your head  
I'm dying to know how it all got in there  
I'm dying to know, to help make some sense of it all  
I'm dying to know, tell me is it my fault?"

-Imogen Heap, _2-1_

A yawn overtakes Harry: a massive, jaw-cracking yawn that seems to shoot through his entire being. Harry should have known better than to sneak out and break into someone's house at three in the morning on a school night, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. The weekend had just seemed so far away; waiting that long had been impossible. Harry is paying for that decision now, though. Exhaustion hangs on Harry like it has a physical form, clinging to every inch of his body and dragging him downwards. Harry would like nothing better than to just succumb to that pull, lay his head on his desk and doze off, but Hermione is sitting next to him and she would never allow that. Not in class.

Up at the front of the room Professor Hunter is explaining the process through which counter curses are made. Harry wishes he could pay attention. He can feel Professor Hunter's blue eyes on him, can feel the heat of that gaze searing his skin. Normally Harry would be curious, eager to play the game, but right now his brain isn't working. Harry's mind drifts.

Could the rumors be true? Could Voldemort really be back? There had been gaps, chances for an eighth horcrux to slip through the cracks. After all, when it boils down to it, the only thing they'd had to base their plans on had been hunches. Nuances and memories, hints and inflections: that's all they'd had to work with, all they could interpret. It had taken a lot of mental leaps, a lot of connecting dots that weren't even there. But it had been Dumbledore's hunches, Dumbledore connecting those dots, and Dumbledore's hunches were so reliable. He had seemed so sure of himself despite their limited evidence, so confident in his guesses. And so Harry had been confident as well. After all, he believes in Dumbledore with everything he has.

But is it possible that Dumbledore was wrong? Possible that he'd taken one final gamble that hadn't paid off?

Regretfully, Harry admits to himself that it is.

All they'd had to go on was one memory, one simple, foreboding question:

_"What I don't understand, though — just out of curiosity — I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn't seven — ?"_

It had been just a hint of what was going on in a young Voldemort's mind, but it had been just the hint they'd needed. Or so they had thought, anyways. After all, it had fit so well with what they already knew of Tom Marvolo Riddle. Tom cared about symbolism. He knew that there is a power in storytelling, in history. He cared about how he fit into that. Tom liked ceremonies: all the pomp and circumstance. He had wanted to treat his soul with all the dignity and custom it deserved. Accordingly, he chose items of historical significance to house his soul, items that represented powerful people, whose importance were immortal, undying. It makes sense that he would want to divide his soul into the most powerfully magical number as well. It would have suited Voldemort's vanity, his perceived self-importance. But the idea remains only a probable theory. It is possible that Voldemort made more. Unlikely, yes, but possible. Harry doesn't like that possibility.

Harry reaches up to touch the thin line of raised skin on his forehead. His scar hasn't so much as twinged since Voldemort's death. The link is definitely gone. That part of Tom's soul has left him, killed by Voldemort's own hand. The lack of pain in Harry's scar may not mean anything then. After all, he's no longer a vessel for a segment of Voldemort's soul. The scar on his forehead is merely rent skin now, nothing more. Another piece of Voldemort's soul could be out there, fluttering about, and Harry wouldn't know. He has no reason to. The connection is gone, his way of sensing the other man's status and emotions severed.

But perhaps….. maybe…

Harry's line of thought grows thin, disintegrating into random clumps of floating gibberish as sleep begins to claim him.

"Mr. Potter!" exclaims a loud voice, and Harry bolts upright in his seat, blinking blearily up into the irritated face of Professor Hunter. "Dozing off in class? Am I really that boring?"

"No, of course not, sir. Sorry," Harry mumbles, trying to shed his half-asleep state under the angry gaze of those deep, blue eyes.

"Well," continues Professor Hunter, "luckily for you, class is just ending now. You don't have to struggle to stay awake any longer. Class dismissed! But stay behind a minute, Potter. We need to have a discussion, you and I." All around the room, papers rustle as people pack up their stuff. Hermione gives Harry a disapproving look as she quickly gathers her things. Ron just gives Harry a sympathetic pat on the back.

"Good luck, mate," he whispers once Hermione is half way to the door and safely out of earshot. Then, he hurries along after her, leaving Harry and a still glaring Professor Hunter alone in the room.

"Mr. Potter," begins Professor Hunter, his voice no longer harsh or sharp, "would you come here please?" Harry gets up from his seat, leaving his belongings where they are, and crosses the room to stand beside Professor Hunter's large wooden desk. Harry expects a lecture, expects to be told off for his disrespect and then given detention to think about his crimes. These things are familiar, are the norm. What Harry doesn't expect is for thin, pale fingers to reach up and twine themselves in his hair, dragging him closer. He doesn't expect to be pulled flush against a slender yet muscular frame or for soft lips to press hungrily against his own. The unexpected happens anyway, ignoring what's normal.

"Is your attention really so much to ask?" Professor Hunter whispers as their lips part. Indigo eyes bore into Harry's, searching. For what, Harry doesn't know. His tired brain is churning, trying frantically to catch up to recent events. Harry wishes desperately that he'd gotten even an hour more of sleep. He feels almost drunk from weariness, his brain unable to function, his body's needs wiping out any other thought his brain tries to have. Professor Hunter's lips were so soft, so warm against Harry's. Somewhere, in the very back of Harry's brain, a little voice is chirping warnings about consequences and thinking before acting, but Harry's body overrides that voice. Harry leans forward, pressing his lips to his teacher's once more. He allows himself to melt into the other man's arms, letting Professor Hunter support his weight. Arms tighten possessively around Harry's waist, pressing him even tighter against the hard muscles of Professor Hunter's chest. A tongue swipes across Harry's lips and Harry obligingly opens his mouth, allowing the slick muscle access. Teeth nip lightly at Harry' lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to sting pleasantly. This light pressure jolts Harry out of his tired stupor. Quickly, Harry pulls away from his teacher's warmth.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he murmurs, avoiding his teacher's gaze. "Couldn't you get into trouble? You know, since you're my teacher and all?"

Professor Hunter chuckles, and Harry can feel the vibrations against his chest.

"Don't worry, Potter," soothes Professor Hunter, leaning down to press wet, open mouthed kisses to the exposed skin of Harry's neck. "I know how to hide things when I have to. No one else needs to know. This can be just for us, just between you and me."

"But why?" Harry splutters, doing his best to ignore his teacher's tongue sliding over the arterial vein in his neck. Isolde pauses over the vein, feeling Harry's pulse fluttering beneath his lips. It's a unique kind of power to be allowed access to this most vulnerable part of another person's body. Isolde nips lightly at the ridge of that vein, enjoying the feel of the warm flesh between his teeth. Then, he abandons Harry's neck, turning his full attention to the boy's question. Now is the time for convincing words and soothing statements. Now is the time to solidify the boy's trust in him.

"Because I want you," Isolde states simply, staring straight into Harry's bright green eyes.

"Why?" Harry presses, his dark brows furrowing together in a frown. "You barely know me. The only things you know about me don't even come from me. They can't; we haven't spent enough time together for that. The only information you could possibly have on me must've come from newspaper or magazine articles. Is that what this is about? Do you want me because I'm famous? Do you just want to be able to say you fucked The-Boy-Who-Lived, the person who killed the greatest dark wizard of all time?"

"The greatest dark wizard of all time…" repeats Isolde, and something about his voice in that moment makes Harry shiver. There's something dark in Isolde's tone, a pleasure with an edge. He almost sounds tender as he repeats the title, the way a lover would whisper their beloved's name between kisses. But there's an anger there too, a regret. Harry's is too tired to analyze his tone any further, though. Even this recognition is just pure instinct. Harry isn't given any time to contemplate this little slip, though, as Professor Hunter continues.

"I'll admit the fact that you were able to kill someone so powerful interests me, pulls at my curiosity. But that's not why I am attracted to you. The fame of others holds no appeal for me. It just means that unwanted noses are more likely to poke around where they don't belong. No, the kind of fame you possess isn't something I care about. What I want, more than to kiss you or touch you even, is to understand you, Harry Potter. I want to figure out what's going on in your head, find out what makes you you. I want you because I have no other choice. I need to be close to you, to touch you, to understand you. My thoughts keep coming back to you, Harry, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Believe me, I wish there was." There's something in Isolde's voice, some regret, as though he's angry at himself for feeling these things, that has Harry believing the other man. In that moment, a decision is made. Harry leans forward, kissing the blond man's full lips once more.

Hands curl around Harry's hips as lips trace the sharp line of Harry's jaw. Thumbs curl around the lip of Harry's trousers, bold fingers sinking down to press into that narrow space between the fabric of Harry's pants and his flesh. Thumbs lightly caress the skin just above Harry's groin teasingly, causing Harry's prick to twitch slightly with interest. Then Isolde's hands are gone, moving up to tug Harry's school robes off his shoulders. Harry's t-shirt soon follows, crumpling to the floor of the classroom in a forlorn heap. Harry shivers slightly as the cold air caresses his now exposed skin. That chill suddenly makes Harry feel vulnerable, hyper aware of his half-naked state. Isolde's indigo eyes languidly examining Harry's bare torso do nothing to help that exposed feeling. Then fingers are caressing the ridges of Harry's stomach muscles. Fingertips ghost over Harry's flesh, pressing down on the mounds his ribs cause as they protrude from his sides. Harry has always been thin. Back when he was a child it was almost certainly from malnourishment, but now Harry just thinks it's the way he's built. After all, the Dursleys aren't here anymore to limit when he's allowed to eat.

Isolde continues his exploration of Harry's chest, reaching up to pinch the boy's rosy nipple between two fingers. He watches as the dusky nub hardens, forming a sharp peak as he tugs at the sensitive flesh. Then Isolde leans forward to take Harry's nipple into his mouth. Harry moans softly as wet heat engulfs the nub, Isolde's tongue swirling around the hard peak. Isolde takes this opportunity to unbutton Harry's trousers, drawing the zipper down slowly. Isolde shimmies Harry's trousers down his narrow hips, not bothering to tug them fully off, just out of the way. Then a hand is dipping down into Harry's boxer-shorts, fingers curling around Harry's semi-erect penis. Harry gasps as lightly calloused fingers palm his shaft, stroking the engorged flesh firmly until Harry is fully hard. Harry's fingers dig into Isolde's shoulders, his fingernails creasing the fabric of his professor's robes. Isolde runs his thumb over the rosy head of Harry's cock, spreading around the drops of pre-cum leaking from the narrow slit there. Isolde's free hand reaches up to curl around Harry's fingers, cradling the other boy's hand in his palm. Then Isolde gently tugs Harry's hand away from his shoulder, guiding the appendage down and placing it on his own aching erection. For a moment, Harry just rests his hand there, feeling the other man's hardness twitch impatiently beneath his palm. It's exciting to feel this concrete evidence of his teacher's interest in him, to know that this hardness beneath his palm is entirely his own creation. Then Harry quickly unfastens the other man's trousers.

Harry reaches into Isolde's briefs, tentatively cupping the other man's erection in his palm and curling his fingers around the swollen flesh. Isolde's cock feels surprisingly heavy in his hand, the skin like velvet against his palm. Harry gives Isolde's erection a careful stroke. It feels odd to be doing this to another man; the angle is completely different than when he jerks himself off for a start. But after a few strokes Harry begins to get the hang of it, speeding up his pace to match the way Isolde is touching Harry. Harry glances up into Isolde's face, checking to make sure that the other man really is enjoying Harry's ministrations. Isolde's pupils are dilated with desire, blackness eclipsing his blue irises. Isolde's full, cupid's bow lips are parted as he gasps out silent moans, his dark blond brows furrowed in an almost pained expression of pleasure. Harry shivers slightly, his cock jolting at the sight. Professor Hunter really is beautiful with his high cheekbones, sharp jaw, and perfect expanses of pale skin. Harry wonders what someone this handsome could possibly see in him. In the next moment Harry's doubts are gone, eclipsed by pleasure as he teeters on the edge of orgasm, pressure coiling in the pit of his stomach. Then Harry is cumming, his seed spurting out in milky tendrils to splatter across Isolde's shirt and hand. A moment later and Isolde is finished as well, his orgasm tugged from him by Harry's rapidly moving fingers.

Isolde gently tucks Harry's wilting cock back into his trousers, letting Harry zip himself back up while he rearranges his own clothes back into some semblance of order. A flick of Isolde's wand later, and the cum flecked over both of them is gone, the evidence of their encounter removed. Harry pulls his shirt back on over his head, smoothing out any creases in the fabric before putting his school robes back on as well. For a moment Harry just stands there awkwardly, unsure what to do next. Should he say something? Perhaps kiss Isolde again? Maybe he should just go. Harry has never been good at situations like this. Romance has always made him feel rather awkward, the pressure of those expectations placed on him daunting. Then Isolde tugs Harry to him, cradling the boy against his chest in an embrace. Isolde places one hand on the back of Harry's head, maneuvering the other boy so that his face is nestled into Isolde's neck. The hug is meant to be tender and comforting, a promise that this meant something, that Isolde cares, but there's something a little stiff about the hug, as though Isolde is not a man used to showing tenderness towards others. Harry doesn't mind, though. At least Isolde is better at this sort of thing than he is. One of them has to be.

"Your job used to be cursed you know, before Voldemort's death," Harry mutters into Professor Hunter's neck, saying the first thing that pops into his mind.

"Really?" asks Isolde, sounding politely interested.

"Yeah," says Harry. "Voldemort himself wanted the post. First when he graduated from here and then again, years later, when he was starting to gain power outside of Hogwarts. The first time he asked Professor Dippet, Dippet turned him down because he was too young. Asked him to apply again in a couple of years. By the time Voldemort came back to try again, though, Dippet had died, making Dumbledore headmaster, and Dumbledore never trusted Voldemort. He saw right through him from the start. The only person Voldemort ever really feared." As Harry speaks, Isolde's muscles slowly tense beneath Harry's hands as Isolde restrains himself from reacting to Harry's words. Harry just assumes that, like many others, Isolde is sensitive about hearing Voldemort's name spoken aloud so casually. When Isolde does finally speak, though, his voice is calm: one of mild and polite interest. His body is still rigid against Harry's, though.

"Why would the Dark Lord want to become a teacher?" Isolde asks mildly.

"Voldemort was always interested in the history of Hogwarts. This place was his first home, the only place he had really. He liked to collect items of historical significance to the school, trophies almost. Teaching here would mean that he would have access to Hogwarts to search it for more items like that. Plus, it would've been the perfect place for him to recruit more followers. I think he got that idea from Professor Slughorn actually. It doesn't really matter, though. Dumbledore saw right through him. Told him to bugger off. Anyways, the position has been cursed ever since; Voldemort's little revenge for not getting his way I guess."

"A rare thing, for someone as powerful as the Dark Lord not to get what he wants," comments Professor Hunter. His hand is curled against Harry's back now, his fingers clenched into an almost claw-like shape against Harry's robes. Fingernails press lightly into Harry's back, as though poised to strike. Isolde doesn't move, though, his body stiff, held perfectly still. Then, suddenly, Isolde relaxes, his fingers splaying out across Harry's back. His tone when he next speaks is light, joking.

"Well, let's hope that the position isn't cursed any more now that he's gone. I'd hate to be its next victim. Definitely not what I signed up for in my contract." Harry chuckles.

"Don't worry, Professor," Harry says. "I'm sure you won't be Voldemort's next victim."

"No," agrees Isolde, a dark amusement flashing in his indigo eyes. "In fact, I'm quite sure I'm the last possible person the Dark Lord would curse. Besides, you killed him. The Dark Lord is nothing more than a mere memory now. And really, what harm can just a memory do?"

*Author's Note: So Harry and Professor Hunter are growing closer. Charm is such a dangerous thing, isn't it? Almost as useful a tool to control others as fear. I hope that you guys enjoyed this chapter and all the juicy fun it had to offer! Please review with any feedback you may have. Also, I'm happy to keep any requests for this story you may have in mind. I also love hearing your guesses about what's going to happen! Thank you all for reading! I hope to hear from you all! :)*


	5. Chapter 5

Watching, Waiting Ch. 5

*Author's Note: Am I a good updater, or what? ;) Thank you to everyone for keeping up with my story! I'm so excited you guys are liking it so far! I also want to thank everyone SO SO much for reviewing. I love to hear from you guys, and I do keep your feedback in mind as I continue to write this story. Anyways, here's chapter five. Enjoy!*

"So you're gonna chase me now boy  
Yeah you're gonna corner me now boy  
You think you're gonna threaten me now boy  
Somehow I don't think so"

-Imogen Heap, _Getting Scared_

Knockturn Alley seems at first like a black and white film. It's as though all color has been drained from the street, seeping out of the buildings and cobblestones to swirl away down a vent in the gutter. Everything has a grey tinge to it, like the flesh of the severely ill. Even the light here doesn't seem as bright as out on Diagon Alley; it looks dim and murky, as though even the sunlight is tainted by the dark magic this street contains. It certainly isn't a welcoming place.

The sun hangs low in the sky, about to dip down below the horizon of city roofs and vanish from sight. It's about 7:30, the time when people begin to transition from dinner to drinks. Accordingly, the bar named The Milk of the Serpent is about to open in fifteen minutes. Across the street, watching the bar from the shadows of another store's awning, stand two boys.

"What is the milk of the serpent anyways?" asks Harry, frowning across the street at the bar's slightly crooked sign. "Do snakes even lactate?" Harry's companion, Draco, raises one blond eyebrow skeptically.

"What?" he retorts. "Just because I'm in Slytherin you think I'm some sort of expert on snakes? I have no idea whether or not snakes lactate. It's not like I've ever tried to milk one before. Besides, you're the Parselmouth here. Shouldn't you be the one to know these things out of the two of us?"

"I've never thought to ask a snake whether or not they produce milk," mutters Harry thoughtfully, his gaze glazing over as his thoughts temporarily drift away from the concrete here and now to ponder this question.

"Right, well, I don't think now is the time," comments Draco. "We have other more pressing matters to attend to at the moment. We've got to get in there before they officially open. Trust me, we don't want to be spotted by any patron of The Milk of the Serpent. Dangerous people the lot of them."

"Right, yeah, of course," murmurs Harry, snapping back to the task at hand. "Let's just get it over with then, shall we?"

"After you," drawls Draco in a mockery of politeness. Harry does lead the way across the street, though. Harry is surprised at how natural it feels to have Draco at his side now. At first it had felt strange to be accompanied by a snarky Slytherin instead of the familiar, warm presence of Hermione and Ron. Harry has been through so much with them, has risked his life by their sides a thousand times. Their bonds are so strong now it feels almost impossible that he's keeping this secret from them, especially a secret as big as this. Part of Harry knows that it's foolish to keep his two best friends in the dark about the possibility that Voldemort could be back once more, but for some reason Harry just can't bring himself to tell them. Ron and Hermione have existed in such a happy bubble since the end of the war. Peace has suited them. Their relationship made it through the most difficult test any relationship could go through, and it has come out the stronger for it. The hectic chaos of the war made Ron and Hermione really appreciate the simple, little moments of everyday life together. They've been so happy, each so wrapped up in the comfortable love of the other, and somehow Harry can't bring himself to end that, to burst their happy little peace time bubble. Ron and Hermione already pushed themselves through one war; they deserve to revel in the peace that has followed a little longer. Harry can deal with this new crisis on his own, at least for now. Well, sort of on his own anyways.

The door to The Milk of the Serpent is locked, no surprise to Harry and Draco since the bar isn't technically open yet, but a quick "Alohomora" does the trick. The door to the bar pops open with a quiet click. Harry glances up at Draco, silently confirming that the other boy is ready. Then he carefully eases the wooden door open. The interior of the bar is dark. The only light on in the entire room is a small oil lamp perched on the counter of the bar itself. All around the room, large, high-backed booth seats loom out of the darkness: even darker shadows nestled within the blackness. Each booth is closed off on at least three sides by high, wooden barriers. Harry can see why this set up would be appealing to someone wanting to keep their meeting a secret. One would have to be standing in just the right place to see the occupants of any particular booth, and in a place like this, only the bartender himself would dare to do so. Privacy is respected in The Milk of the Serpent. It has to be.

Currently, the room only has one other occupant aside from the two intruders. A man is standing behind the counter, absently polishing a filthy looking glass with an even filthier looking cloth. The man is rather portly, with a soft, wobbly middle and thick, meaty fingers. The man is bald, but he has a rather large, bushy mustache. It almost looks as though all the hair on his head just got bored one night and decided to crawl down onto his upper lip while the man slept. As the man spots the two boys slipping in through the front door, a confused frown crinkles his round face.

"Hey! What are you-?" he begins, but he's cut off as Harry's spell strikes him right in the center of his rather sizeable chest.

"Legilimens!" Harry exclaims, his expression one of drawn concentration. This has never been a spell that's come easily to him. Luckily, he is at least a little better at invading the minds of others than he is at keeping others from doing the same to him. At first, it feels as though Harry is trying to push his way through something rubber. Harry can feel the barrier bending before him, shifting to accommodate his movements rather than breaking. Then, Harry feels something give, a tear, and images flood Harry's vision.

_There's a woman, rotund and red-faced, accosting Harry with a spoon. Harry is in a kitchen, perhaps. There's pastel, floral wallpaper on the wall in front of him. It's peeling around the edges. The woman is shouting at him, demanding to know why he's been out late for the second night in a row. Harry is explaining that it's hard work running a bar, that some patrons like to take their own sweet time leaving. Doesn't this woman understand the kind of people who come to your establishment? These aren't the kind of people you can boot out, even if it is almost four in the morning._

Then the world shifts, tilting these images sideways until they're unrecognizable. Quickly, they're replaced.

_Harry is staring in a mirror. His mustache has toothpaste foam caught in its coarse hairs. The guilty toothbrush is still hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Harry reaches up to rub his rather hairy tummy. He's starting to put on a few pounds. Maybe he should start going easier on the red meat. Maybe then his wife will actually fuck him again instead of just yell and nag all the time._

Harry shakes his head. These aren't the memories he's looking for. He has to concentrate, search harder. Harry focuses on the mask, envisions its gleaming, black surface. Surely it's here, in this man's memories, too. It has to be.

_Harry is scared. Fear is coursing through his entire body, causing the tray he's carrying to wobble dangerously. He needs to get a grip on himself. He has to calm down. Can't let them see him like this. Harry takes a deep breath, holding it in his gut for a moment before releasing it once more. He fixes a friendly smile on his face. Everyone likes a nice, friendly smile. Don't they?_

_ The table Harry is walking towards is located at the back corner of the room. It's Harry's most private table of all. It's his biggest table, too. Even so Harry had needed to place an extending charm on it. The group tonight is big. Big, and worrying. Harry approaches the small opening at the end of the table, the tiny gap through which he can actually see and tend to his customers. Secrecy is important here. Harry understands that better than anyone. It's what keeps him in business. No one knows how to keep his mouth shut like Harry does. He may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knows how to keep his mouth shut and just ask "What tool?", and "What the hell is a bloody shed?" when asked. It's a simple skill, but a useful one. So far, it's the only one he's needed._

_ "Here's those Firewhiskeys for ya. Anything else I can get you fellows?" Harry asks brightly, a determined smile plastered on his face. A sea of masked faces turns to look at him. Harry's determined smile quavers slightly, but holds. At least a dozen people watch Harry through narrow eye holes. It's hard to determine anything about these people. Their faces are hidden, all replaced with expressionless pieces of black metal, and their bodies are nothing but shapeless pools of black fabric. It almost looks as though the ring of people surrounding the table isn't a group of individuals, but is instead one entity: like one of those paper dragons Harry's seen muggles wave about near the Chinese New Year. It's as though these people are really just a single, massive piece of black fabric._

_ One segment of the black fabric suddenly speaks, and Harry relaxes. Harry may not be able to see the man's face beneath his mask, but he knows that voice. That man comes here all the time, practically a regular if such a thing exists in The Milk of the Serpent. A face flickers up in Harry's mind's eye: the face that belongs with that voice. Thin, gaunt features, leathery skin, dark, narrow eyes. Then the face is gone._

_ "We'll have two of your mixed appetizer plates," says the man, his voice slightly muffled and echo-y. Harry nods quickly and turns away, relieved to be leaving the group behind once more. Trouble. This can mean nothing but trouble. They'd better leave a great tip. Then a thought passes curiously through Harry's head. How on earth are they going to eat or drink with those ridiculous masks on?_

Harry pulls back, and the bartender's memories fade from his vision. He's back in the present once more, in his own head. The bartender is frowning, blinking blearily up at the two boys in front of him, trying to get his bearings once more.

"What-?" he begins groggily, but Harry cuts his sentence short for a second time.

"Obliviate," he murmurs, and the man's face goes pleasantly blank, as though to suddenly forget these puzzling events is a relief.

"Two Butterbeers, please," says Draco cheerfully to the man, smiling innocently. The bartender blinks confusedly once, then shakes his head slightly, like a dog trying to rid itself of a pesky fly.

"What?" he mutters dazedly. Then he seems to snap out of it. "Oh, right. Two Butterbeers coming right up. You boys can take booth number five, on the left over there if you'd like." Draco nods, still smiling pleasantly, then turns to the booth in question. Harry quickly follows. Harry feels unpleasantly short as he slides into the booth, the walls surrounding him feeling impossibly high. It really does feel quite private, though. It's as if Draco and he are the only two people in existence, as though they're completely cut off from the rest of the world. Harry wonders if this is what it feels like to be stranded on a desert island.

"So?" prompts Draco, leaning over the table so that his head is closer to Harry's. "What did you find out?"

"Muffliato," Harry murmurs, casting the spell on their little booth. It wouldn't do to have the bartender overhearing this little conversation, especially after he's already conveniently forgotten its origin.

"I saw a meeting, here," Harry begins, keeping his voice low despite the protective spell he'd just placed. "Around a dozen people all in masks like the one we found in Elliot's room. I couldn't tell what the meeting was about, the bartender did his best to keep his distance from them, but it looked bad. I can't tell if any of them was Elliot, though. They all looked the same with those masks and hoods on."

"So you couldn't tell who any of them were?" asks Draco, sounding disappointed.

"No," replies Harry. "The Bartender recognized the voice of one of them. Apparently the man is a regular here. I saw a glimpse of his face, not in that moment, but through the bartender recalling it. I'd definitely recognize him if I saw him again."

"Well, that's something then, at least," comments Draco. "You say he's a regular here?"

"Yeah," confirms Harry, nodding.

"Well then," says Draco, a smugly satisfied grin spreading slowly over his pallid face, "sounds like all we have to do is wait." Conveniently, at just this moment, their Butterbeers arrive.

Two hours later, and just waiting in bar for the man to show up doesn't sound like such a great plan anymore. First of all, it's incredibly hard to see anyone coming in with the walls surrounding their booth on all sides. Harry keeps having to poke his head out of their booth to surreptitiously look around every time they hear the bar door open. This obvious nosiness clearly is not welcome in The Milk of the Serpent. Harry is sure that soon someone is going to hex him rather than just glare.

"Why don't you check next time?" Harry complains. "After all, I'm the boy who killed the man who probably led most of these people at one time or another. I'm amazed no one's recognized me yet and gone in for the kill."

"No one here is going to recognize you," declares Draco, shaking his head. "People see what they expect to see, not what's really right in front of their eyes. And no one expects to find The-Boy-Who-Lived in a place like The Milk of the Serpent. You'll be fine. Stop being such a nancy."

"You say that, yet I see that you're not willing to stick your head out here…" grumbles Harry.

"Of course not," agrees Draco, completely unashamed. "I'm not a complete idiot." Harry just glares. The door tinkles once more, and after giving Draco a scalding look, Harry peers out to see who it is. A jolt of adrenaline shoots through Harry as his eyes land on a thin, wiry man slinking in through the front door. It's him: the man from the memory.

"It's him!" hisses Harry excitedly to Draco. "Let's go!" Harry hurriedly slides from the booth, Draco right behind him, and the pair hurry towards the bar door and the man still standing awkwardly in front of it. Before the man can react, Harry and Draco have each grabbed him by one elbow and are manhandling him back out onto the street.

"What the hell!" the man exclaims, as the two teenagers shove him backwards through the bar door and out onto the pavement of Knockturn Alley. The man struggles in their hold, trying to reach his wand, but it's too late. In an instant, Harry has disarmed their captive, the other man's wand clutched tightly in Harry's slender fingers. The man's dark eyes flicker back and forth between his wand and Harry's face, recognition dawning in his gaunt features. For a second, the man looks as though he's going to run, even if that does mean leaving his wand behind. Then Draco's wand is pointed at the man's jugular and running suddenly isn't an option anymore.

"What do you want from me?" hisses the man, staring into Harry's face with wide-eyed terror. He knows who Harry is, recognizes his face from the pictures in the newspaper. He knows just what this slender boy is capable of.

"What I want is very simple," Harry states, his voice deep and cold: a voice of power. This is not a voice that can be argued with. This is a voice with steel at its core. "And so long as you cooperate, no harm shall come to you. All you have to do is answer a few simple questions."

"Right, ok. You go it," agrees the man hurriedly. He has no interest in being a martyr. No, in a choice between his secrets and his life, this man wants nothing more than to live. Noble is worth nothing in the grave. There are others in the organization who would disagree, who would die before talking to this boy who once killed their leader, but this man is not one of them. There are some things he cannot say, though. Things he has sworn on his blood and life not to reveal.

"What is the group you're part of: the group whose symbol is the Ankh surrounded by a circle of snakes?" asks Harry firmly. A tremble shoots through the cowering man then: his fear manifested in physical form. This is a question he cannot answer.

"I can't tell you," he mutters, not meeting Harry's eyes.

"I can make you," declares Harry coldly, raising his wand to point it straight between the man's dark eyes.

"No, please, don't!" exclaims the man, raising his hands up in front of him in a vain attempt to protect himself from Harry's anger. "I really can't! I swore an unbreakable vow! I can't tell you! Not won't, can't!" Harry pauses, lowering his wand slightly. The man seems to be telling the truth.

"What were the words of your oath?" presses Harry, trying to figure out if they're going to be able to get anything at all out of this quivering man after all.

"Um, I-" stutters the man.

"WHAT WERE THE WORDS OF YOUR OATH?" shouts Draco in the man's ear, his wand tip pressing hard into the skin of the man's neck.

"I solemnly swear never to communicate any information about The Revivalists to anyone whom isn't a member of The Revivalists," the man hurriedly stammers, flecks of spittle spewing from his mouth in his haste. Harry frowns. It's a simple oath, nothing more than a mere sentence, but it's comprehensive. The word "communicate" eliminates the possibility of the man writing down the information rather than saying it, and "any information" is so broad and vague that it covers anything Harry can think of asking the man about the group. The one bit of information this oath did give Harry is the name of the group: The Revivalists. At least now they have something to call them.

"Fine," Harry concedes. "I won't press you about that. You'll do me no good if your own blood boils you alive in your veins. But you will tell me where Elliot Fisher is. That isn't a question about The Revivalists as a group. That's just a question about a young boy. You can answer that safely I'm sure." The man hesitates for a moment, seemingly thinking over whether or not he can answer Harry's question without breaking his oath. Then, finally, the man speaks, his voice soft and thin in the night air.

"Little Hangleton. The Fisher boy is in the graveyard in Little Hangleton."

*Author's Note: And the new group of Death Eaters finally has a name! I hope you guys have enjoyed this most recent addition to _Watching, Waiting_. Please review with any feedback or requests you may have. I love hearing from you guys! Also, I have loved hearing your guesses about what's going to happen, even though I of course won't tell you whether or not you're right. ;) You guys have some good and interesting theories. And some of you are very perceptive about picking up on the hints I've been sprinkling about. Thank you all so much for reading! And don't worry, the next chapter will be up nice and quickly!*


	6. Chapter 6

Watching, Waiting Ch. 6

*Author's Note: Hi guys! Welcome to chapter six of my story! I am so grateful to everyone who's been following along with this story. I want to thank everyone who left me such lovely and encouraging reviews. You guys are great! I hope you like this most recent addition!*

"Nicest, sweetest,  
Upmost in everything  
So charming, very charming  
Well read, can play the fool, no one's ill at ease  
And put their deepest Swiss bank trust in you  
No one saw it coming"

-Imogen Heap, _Aha!_

Harry stands next a low, stone wall, his feet on the borderline between the normal world and the setting of his nightmares. Before him, gravestones emerge from the long grass like icebergs from the ocean that felled the Titanic. At one point this had been a beautiful and well-kept cemetery, but time has taken its toll on this resting place. Gravestones that once stood proud and straight now lilt downwards, gravity drawing them down into the earth. Moss and ivy creep slowly up stone obelisks, nature obscuring the man-made carvings. Some of the names on the gravestones have been covered completely by plant-life, others have been worn away by time and weather. A few of the monuments in this cemetery were clearly quite expensive. Statues of people long since gone rise up from the sea of stone and vegetation to loom over everything else, but even these have begun to crumble and fade. Time doesn't care about expense. Money means nothing in death. Even the wealthy bodies tucked away in ornately carved mausoleums have rotted away. Harry isn't afraid of this place for the dead bodies it holds, though. No, Harry is afraid of the memories this graveyard contains.

This cold, dark place is where Cedric Diggory inhaled his final breath. This place is where his grey eyes went blank, the life sucked out of them by Peter Pettigrew's killing curse. This is the place where Harry wasn't able to be the savior everyone hoped he'd be. This is where Harry failed. That failure has haunted Harry, the pain of it drawing him into nightmares and forcing him to relive that moment over and over. At night Harry watches Cedric die before his eyes again and again, as helpless in his dreams as he had been in real life. Harry has experienced so many horrible things since then, an entire war full of nightmares, but something about this first real experience of a friend dying has stuck with Harry above everything else. And now here Harry is, back where it all happened.

Harry steps forward, crossing the threshold into the Little Hangleton cemetery, Draco close behind him.

"He could be anywhere," groans Draco, dismayed as he takes in the massive size of the graveyard. "This place is huge! It's going to take us all night to search it. We should have just taken that guy with us instead of obliviating him. Then he could just lead us to Elliot."

"No," interjects Harry, shaking his head gravely. "I don't think he'll be just anywhere. In fact, I'd be very surprised if I don't already know where he is."

"How could you possibly know where he is?" asks Draco, eyeing Harry curiously, but Harry doesn't answer. Instead, he strides purposefully off across the graveyard, his expression one of grim determination. Draco quickly trots along after him. Harry ducks and weaves around the sea of gravestones, coils of ivy nearly catching his wandering feet more than once. Harry rounds the corner of a massive stone sarcophagus and freezes, almost causing Draco to bump into him from behind. There, right in front of him, is the massive statue of the Angel of Death that marks the Riddles' graves. Harry can merely see the back of the statue, its dark stone robes and massive half-curled wings, but he'd recognize that figure anywhere. Trembles wrack Harry's form as he remembers the way that statue held him in place, completely immobile and unable to prevent Pettigrew's blade from sinking into his skin. He remembers the loyalty and fear that caused a servant to slice off his own hand for his master. He recalls the horror of seeing Voldemort's body shape itself from just thin air and Harry's own blood. He remembers the pain and the fear.

A hand rests on Harry's shoulder, comforting him. Unconsciously, Harry leans into the touch. Draco pats him awkwardly once, then lets go. The pair continues on towards the statue. The closer the two boys get, the larger the Angel of Death seems until the statue is looming over them, practically blocking out the sky with its massive stone wings. Harry reaches out to touch the ridged stone, his fingertips gliding over the statue's cold feathers. This statue cannot imprison him now. Not this time. This time the decoration is just that: decorative. Harry inches his way around the angel, his hand remaining glued to the statue like a blind person trying to find his way without sight. Then, as Harry steps around to the statue's front, his heart drops.

There, lying on the wild and untamed grass, lies the body of Elliot Fisher. Harry had known, deep down, that the boy would be dead. However, it's one thing to know something logically, and another thing entirely to see it in reality. Elliot looks much as he did in the picture the Daily Prophet released. Light brown curly hair frames a round, slightly chubby face. Hazel eyes stare off, unseeing, into the darkness. His expression isn't one of fear or hatred. Instead, Elliot's face is perfectly blank, as though he's in some kind of trance. He's lying flat on his back, his arms slightly away from his sides and his legs together. It's an unnatural pose, too stiff and rigid for real life. Clearly Elliot's body has been arranged and positioned since his death. Despite this odd pose, though, it almost looks as if Elliot could have just been petrified. His skin is unnaturally pale, drained of any life and color, but other than that he looks to be in perfect health. His body hasn't decomposed at all; no bugs nibble at the flesh, no skin is rotting away. As Harry approaches, he realizes the body doesn't even smell. Either Elliot dropped dead mere moments ago, or some spell has been used to preserve and protect the body.

Harry kneels down beside the body, reaching out to tentatively press his fingers to the other boy's wrist. There's no pulse. Elliot's skin is cold. This boy has been dead for quite some time. Draco waves his wand over Elliot's chest, muttering a spell Harry doesn't recognize. A set of numbers materializes in the air over Elliot's body, glowing briefly and then vanishing into nothingness once more.

**3 : 1 : 4 : 14**

"What does it mean?" asks Harry.

"It's how long Elliot's been dead," explains Draco grimly, his face solemn and drawn. "Three months, one week, four days, fourteen hours." Harry nods, not bothering to ask how Draco learned such a spell. By now neither boy is a stranger to death.

"It makes no sense, though," Draco continues, frowning. "Elliot has only been missing for about a week. How can he have been dead this long if his grandmother saw him jump out his window on Monday?"

"Polyjuice Potion would be my guess," says Harry. "Look, here, a chunk of his hair is missing. I bet they took it with them to make the potion with. That way no one would suspect or be out searching for a body. It bought them time." Harry points to a large section of hair cropped much shorter than the rest on the side of Elliot's head.

"What's that stuff next to his shoulder? No, Potter, on the left. It looks like ash," asks Draco, pointing to a pile of fine grey dust. Harry leans over Elliot's body, squinting down at the dark substance. Harry reaches down and picks up a tiny sliver of charred paper. Something was burned here, a pile of papers, or a book perhaps. Suddenly, a chill runs through Harry that has nothing to do with the cold of the cemetery. Long stretches of time gone from Elliot's memory, unexplainable and uncharacteristic actions unremembered, a body drained of life in a location significant to Voldemort's past, a book burnt and destroyed. It's all painfully familiar, painfully obvious. Harry has seen it all before, back in his second year. Only that time Harry had made it before Ginny became like the lifeless husk before him.

Possession. Elliot Fisher had been possessed. He'd opened up his heart, gotten emotionally close to an invisible voice in an unknown book, and through that trust Voldemort had taken Elliot's life force and made it his own. A memory made weapon. A life long ago brought into the here and now.

Harry stands, pointing his wand up into the starry sky.

"Expecto Patronum," he states firmly. A great, silver stag erupts from his wand, leaping out gracefully into the cool night air. The stag stops for a moment, turning to give Harry a questioning look. Its ears flip forwards, swiveling so that they too are facing Harry. Then the animal dips its head, almost like a nod, and gallops away into the sky.

"What was that for?" asks Draco, watching Harry's Patronus shoot off across the sky like a comet.

"A message for Kingsley," explains Harry. "Elliot's family deserves to know where his body is, even if the details of his death should probably be kept from them. And the Order needs to know that Voldemort really is back. They have to be ready. I've been an idiot, thinking I could just handle this quietly by myself and no one would be the wiser. This is more serious than I expected. It's time to get our side mobilized. A fight is coming, quite soon unless I'm very mistaken, and we need to be ready."

"Wait, hold on," interjects Draco, panic beginning to lace his words. "How can you suddenly know that the Dark Lord has risen again? All you did was poke at some dust. Surely you can't be certain."

"You remember back in our second year that the Chamber of Slytherin was reopened?" asks Harry.

"Obviously. Not the sort of thing that just slips one's mind," retorts Draco, a little bit of his usual snarkiness breaking through his growing fear.

"Right, well, the students were never told who opened the chamber, who Slytherin's heir really was. The truth is that none of the current students were Slytherin's heir. Voldemort was the last of that line, and he obviously hasn't had any kids to pass that title onto. It was actually one of the students being possessed by Voldemort. I won't say who, in order to protect her privacy, but the girl in question would slip into these trances. When she finally snapped out of them, she was unable to remember anything she'd done for a while. There was just this big, black gap in her memory. She'd end up somewhere and unable to recall how she'd gotten there. Of course during these gaps she'd really been opening the chamber and writing sinister messages on the wall, but she had no way of knowing that until later. Then, finally, one day Voldemort led her down into the chamber itself and left her there, slowly draining the life from her body. Voldemort's memory was sealed in this diary, you see, and she'd been writing in it for months, pouring her heart and secrets into its pages. This connected them, enabled him to possess her and eventually start to sap her life. Luckily I was able to get to her and destroy the diary before that could happen, but it was close. That pile of ash there is burnt paper. This whole situation with Elliot, the memory gaps, the odd behaviors, and now this drained body: it all fits. It's all a repeat of what happened down in Slytherin's Chamber. That's how I know that Voldemort really has returned. I know because I have seen this all before. The only difference between now and then is that this time Voldemort succeeded. This time, we were too late."

Draco remains silent through Harry's speech, taking all of this new information in. It's a lot to digest all in one go.

"I think we should get back to the school," Draco finally says, his voice thin and shaky around the edges. "I have some messages of my own that I need to send. I have to warn my parents that he's back. They need to get underground. Now. Traitors have never lasted long around the Dark Lord, and that's what we are now: traitors. My family needs to vanish, at least for now."

"We can protect you," Harry says, reaching out and laying a comforting hand on Draco's forearm. "The Order has ways, ways that even Voldemort can't penetrate. Your family would be safe."

Draco stiffens for a moment beneath Harry's fingertips, and Harry knows without having to be told that Draco is remembering Dumbledore telling him something similar before he plummeted to his death.

"Thank you, Potter," murmurs Draco, "but my family has its own constringency plans in place. We can handle ourselves. But I really do need to get those plans started now. Kingsley can handle Elliot's body, right? I'd really like to get back so I can send an owl."

"Of course," affirms Harry, giving Draco's arm a gently squeeze. "Kingsley is more than capable of taking care of this. We can go. It's not like there's anything more we can do for Elliot now anyways." Harry slides his hand down Draco's pale arm, meshing his fingers with Draco's. Then, with a loud crack, the pair disapparates, leaving Elliot's lifeless body behind.

The pair is quiet as they sneak back through Hogsmead and up the secret passage to the school. Both are too caught up in their own thoughts to acknowledge the other. Once they reach Hogwarts, the pair splits up. Draco hurries away up to the Owlry, eager to get word to his parents, and Harry descends down towards the Quidditch pitch. There are too many thoughts roiling around his head, trying to be heard. He needs to run, needs to empty himself until it's just the ache in his limbs and the quiet sounds of his own breathing left. Harry has only gone down one floor, though, when a hand reaches out of the darkness to grab his arm.

"Mr. Potter," drawls a low, husky voice: a familiar voice. "Out after curfew again? This is starting to become a pattern, and we can't have that now, can we?" Harry groans, his heart sinking as he suddenly realizes just whose office he's outside of. He can't deal with this now, not when there's already so much chaos swirling around in his head. For once in his life Harry would like to have just one source of drama at a time. The world never seems to pay attention to Harry's wishes, though.

Professor Hunter gives Harry's arm a gentle tug, pulling the boy effortlessly into his firm chest. Fingers curl around the sharp jut of Harry's hip bone, and full lips ghost across the shell of Harry's ear. A shiver runs through Harry at the touch, heat seeping through his skin from the other man's lips. Harry can feel himself flushing, can feel the warmth of it burning in his cheeks and chest. Then Harry has tugged himself free of the other man's hold.

"No!" Harry exclaims, his voice embarrassingly out of breath. "No, we can't."

"And why can't we?" asks Isolde, tilting his head slightly to the side as he appraises Harry curiously. He doesn't seem at all offended by Harry's rejection. In fact, he seems almost amused at the brunette's protests.

"Because last time was a mistake," exclaims Harry. "I wasn't thinking straight. I was tired, and you, well, you just took me by surprise. I mean, we barely know each other. I just got swept up in the moment is all. But we're moving too fast. I just think we need to take a few steps back, think things through more. Not that I don't like you or anything," Harry quickly adds, not wanting to offend the other man, "but it really was a mistake for us to go so far."

Harry expects anger, possibly even sadness from Isolde at being rejected. He expects for the other man to tell him that it wasn't a mistake, that it was meant to be, that it meant something. He expects yelling and perhaps a little storming off. What Harry doesn't expect is for Professor Hunter to just smile up at him, amusement twinkling in his blue eyes.

"So?" Isolde asks, his voice perfectly calm and collected. "What does it matter if last time was a mistake? It's a mistake you already made. You can't go back and undo it now by avoiding me. Time only goes one way, Potter, and it isn't backwards. You can deny it all you want, tell yourself it was all just the heat of the moment. Who knows, maybe it was, but that doesn't make any difference in the long run. It happened. You might as well just push on 'cause playing coy now isn't going to erase my touch from you. Avoiding me now isn't going to remove the memory of my hand around your cock from your mind. You and I are bonded now, Potter, whether you regret it or not. You might as well enjoy the results." As Professor Hunter speaks, he walks forward, slowly and deliberately closing the distance between Harry and himself. Harry can see what's happening, has time to back away and prevent Isolde's touch, but he doesn't. There's something about the hunger in Isolde's eyes, something about the inviting way that Isolde's mouth pouts around his words that holds Harry in place, rooted to the spot. He can't say no.

Isolde reaches up, cradling Harry's face in his palm. Then indigo eyes flutter closed, and Isolde's lips are pressed against Harry's. Isolde's other hand curls around Harry's shoulder, dragging him backwards into Isolde's office. Professor Hunter kicks the door closed behind them. Suddenly, hands are everywhere. Fingers slither up Harry's stomach, gliding over smooth muscle until they're found Harry's nipples, pinching and squeezing. Lips trail down over Harry's jaw to his neck, sucking at the sensitive flesh there teasingly. Then Harry's shirt is gone, dragged up and over his head to be discarded on the floor.

Fingers tug at the zipper on Harry's trousers, dragging it down hurriedly before all other closures are undone. Then Harry's bottoms are jerked down his hips to pool at his ankles, leaving Harry in nothing but his boxer-briefs. Harry's black boxers are tented, his erection straining against the fabric as precum leaves a damp stain on its surface. Isolde gently runs his fingertips along the outline of Harry's cock, the touch almost tender. Then Isolde turns, knocking all of the papers and quills from his desk with one neat swipe of his arm. Hands curl beneath Harry's armpits, hoisting him up so that he's sitting on the edge of Professor Hunter's desk. There's one paper left, stubbornly clinging to the edge of the desk. Harry reaches out to knock it the rest of the way off, but his hand stops dead in its tracks mere inches from the paper. The parchment bears a note written by Professor Hunter, some reminder to himself or something. It isn't the contents of the paper that catches Harry's attention. No, what grabs Harry's mind, focuses his entire being on this one, little scrap of tree-remnants, is the elegant, looping handwriting scrawled across the parchment. Harry recognizes that handwriting. Realization drops on Harry's head like an anvil as it comes to him where he's seen that handwriting before: Elliot Fisher's room. On a note bearing an address. A note currently tucked away in Harry's trunk up in Gryffindor tower.

Harry turns to face the man whose elegant hand is currently closing around Harry's cock, and stares into his deep indigo eyes.

"It's you," Harry breathes, his words like acid burning him as they drip from his tongue. "You're him. You're Tom Marvolo Riddle."

*Author's Note: Poor, poor Harry. I don't think there's any worse time that he could've possibly realized Professor Hunter's identity. Lord Voldemort has literally got him by the family jewels... Anyways, I hope you guys liked this most recent chapter! I hope you'll all review with your reactions and feedback. Thank you all so much for reading, and don't worry, I'll update again soon! Thank you! :)*


	7. Chapter 7

Watching, Waiting Ch. 7

*Author's Note: Hi everyone! Sorry I left you all with such a mean cliff hanger last time. ;) Thank you all so much for all the lovely reviews you guys left! I enjoyed reading every single one of them! I hope that this chapter begins to answer some of your questions. Enjoy!*

"You're going to lose it all  
And find yourself on your knees  
So, get a grip and you might  
Flow, reverse the great, slow bleed"

-Imogen Heap, _Earth_

A symbolic mask shatters in slow motion. Shards fall away in all directions, cracked remnants spilling to the ground. Metaphorical bits of ceramic tinkle as they strike the stone floor. It's amazing how quickly Tom's expression transforms from the innocence of Professor Hunter into the smug smirk of Tom Marvolo Riddle. No, Tom Marvolo Riddle was excellent at hiding his darker nature. This malicious expression is pure Lord Voldemort.

"Oops," sing-songs Tom mockingly, "guess you've found me out." There's no anger or fear in his voice. Instead, he almost seems pleased that Harry's finally worked it out. He's been playing with Harry, toying with him the way a cat bats lazily at a scampering mouse, but it's no fun to play with a mouse who doesn't know the danger it's in. It's much more entertaining to challenge a knowing opponent. There's no sport in it when no one's fighting back.

Tom's fingers are still wrapped around Harry's partial erection, and now, as he appraises Harry's horrified expression amusedly, those fingers begin to move. Tom strokes Harry's cock firmly, squeezing the engorged flesh tantalizingly. Despite himself, Harry finds himself reacting to the touch. He can't help it. Stimulation is stimulation, no matter whom it comes from or the circumstances surrounding it.

"Just out of curiosity, what gave me away?" continues Tom, his voice still annoyingly casual. From his tone he might as well be asking about the weather.

"The handwriting on the note you left at Elliot Fisher's house," answers Harry. He's happy to keep these inane questions going, happy to buy himself more time to think of a way out of this mess. He just needs more time. There's got to be a way to get out of this room alive. He's always found one before. Although, admittedly, he's never been held in place by his cock before. He just needs to buy himself a little more time. Where is his wand? He'd lost track of it sometime when Tom was stripping him. Harry quickly scans the room, emerald eyes scouring the area between the door and the desk he's sitting on. There, right at the foot of the desk sits his abandoned wand. If Harry can just scoot a little bit forwards then perhaps he can reach it with his toes. He has to try. He just has to keep Tom distracted, unaware of Harry's activities.

A thumb rubs the head of Harry's penis, circling its width languidly. Harry quickly moans, his eyes squeezing shut as though with pleasure. As his back arches and his body quivers slightly he surreptitiously scoots his butt forwards along the desk. Just an inch. It's enough, though. Harry feels wood beneath his searching feet and curls his toes, capturing his wand between his toes and the sole of his foot. Harry's eyes snap open, and he has just enough time to take in Tom's smug expression before he's moving. Harry's right foot swings up, catching Tom right in the fork of his legs. At the same time, Harry's left leg twists up and to the side, bringing his wand up and within reach of his desperately grabbing fingers.

"Stupify!" shouts Harry, pointing his wand straight into Tom's pained face. Despite the temporary pain of Harry's kick, though, Tom is still too fast.

"Protego!" Tom gasps, clutching his aching crotch protectively. Then, before Harry can even begin to react: "Crucio."

Pain vibrates through every nerve ending in Harry's body. It feels as though his skin is on fire, as though his blood is boiling in his veins and cooking him from the inside out. This isn't the kind of pain that can be ignored or bargained with. This is the kind of pain that obliterates everything else, that takes over your entire existence until you don't even know who you are anymore. You have no identity, no memories; all there is is pain. It feels as though the spell lasts forever, but it's probably only moments. When the spell is finally lifted and Harry's senses return to him, something sharp is pressing into the delicate flesh of Harry's throat. Harry has no doubt as to what it is.

"Why?" Harry croaks, his tongue feeling like a useless wad of cotton in his mouth. "Why did you come here? You could've gone anywhere, done anything. Why come back to Hogwarts?" Indigo eyes bore into Harry's, staring at him as though all the secrets of the world are etched across his irises. There's a hunger in that gaze, a hunger so intense that Harry shivers despite himself, goose bumps peaking along his skin.

"It's simple, Potter. Incredibly simple. I came back to Hogwarts for you," declares Tom. "I had to meet the boy powerful enough to kill my future self, not just once, but multiple times. I had to get close to you, had to understand how just some ordinary boy managed to defeat the most powerful dark wizard of all time. And you are so incredibly ordinary, Potter. I was expecting at least some sort of challenge from you, after everything I'd heard, but you fell for my lies like a complete amateur. All it took was a few minor changes to my appearance and affectations. It's amazing how little I had to do to hide my true identity. Truly amazing. You all really are just completely incompetent. All I had to do was broaden my nose, give myself a few freckles, change my coloring and alter my jaw line slightly. Minor changes. Yet none of you recognized me. To be fair, most people have forgotten how my face once looked. People in this world don't know me as the handsome Tom Riddle anymore. I've seen photos of what I became, of my snakelike new body. I can understand how, compared to that, I look completely different now. But still. You'd think someone would remember the face and body I once had. Pathetic, really. And that was all it took to get close to you, Potter. I thought that you must have some incredible power, something I could understand by being around you. I've had people explain the details to me. How your mother died to protect you as a baby and left some ancient magic defense on you as a result. How you discovered the horcruxes and tracked them down one by one. But still, even with all that I couldn't understand. No, I thought, there must be more to it. There must be some secret power the boy possesses to have defeated me. He masquerades as average and unremarkable, but there must be something special about him. Otherwise how could he have gotten so close to ending my future self? There's no way, I thought. I had to get closer to you, had to figure it out. I thought that I would understand if only I could just be around you, speak to you, touch you. And I was right. I think that I do understand now."

At the beginning of this speech, Tom's voice is calm, his words collected and carefully chosen. Now, though, his voice is rough and filled with emotion. There's a slight madness clinging to his voice, an obsession that's curdled and fed on itself until it's grown out of control. Harry can see it in Tom's magically altered eyes as well: the desire, the need for Harry. What had begun as obsessing over how Harry could've killed Tom had shifted, bit by imperceptible bit, until it had become obsessing over Harry himself.

"Now I know that you didn't defeat me because you're special or strong or exceptional," continues Tom, his wand pressing even harder into Harry's throat with each word. "Now I know that it was just plain, simple luck. You defeated me, not just once, but multiple times because of pure chance. You were lucky, and you had help. That's all. I'll admit, I was disappointed. To think that I could be defeated by sheer bad luck. Horrible. A complete let down. But still, even after figuring it out, I had to get close to you. You bested me, killed me over and over again. I had to, I just- I had to. I, well, I needed to see the person capable of that, even if it was just luck. Besides, now I'm in the perfect place to take you out. And then there will be no one to stand against me. I'll be able to take up my rightful place in the world, and this time I'll do it right. This time I really will live forever and rule the wizarding world as it should be ruled, with wizards in their rightful places at the top of the human hierarchy."

"I can do it again, you know," blurts Harry, fury rising up within him. He may be pinned, cornered with a wand at his throat, but he'll be damned if he doesn't go down fighting. "I'll stop you again, defeat you like I have a hundred times before." Tom just laughs, the sound cold and foreboding as it echoes around the small room.

"No you won't," Tom chuckles, smirking down at Harry in obvious amusement. "It's too late for that now, Potter. The pieces are already in motion. Nothing can stop my regime now. This time I won't just make history. This time the future will be mine to dictate. This time immortality shall truly be mine."

"Why?" asks Harry, frustration beginning to trickle into his desperate words. "Why is it so bloody important to you to live forever? What could possibly be so appealing about immortality that you would kill thousands of innocent people to obtain it? What could you possibly need to do that takes more than a life time? You really love all of the details of your everyday, boring routine so much that you need eternity to enjoy them? I can't understand why you would want to exist in this world forever, with your life stretching out endlessly in front of you, watching everyone else around you fade and die and then be replaced with other, new faces only to have it happen all over again."

"Fool," Tom snaps, his upper lip curling in disdain. "The point isn't to live forever, Potter. The point is to not die. After all, there is nothing worse than death. Nothing. As you're about to find out."

"But death catches up to you, Riddle," warns Harry, his green eyes boring into Tom's. "You can't escape it forever. I've already seen to that once. And you know what? I saw what will become of you once you finally truly die. I saw the shriveled up husk of creature you'll be, crying out in pain as you wait in limbo for eternity. Unable to move on, unable to return to life. You doomed yourself, Riddle, when you split your soul with murder, and someday you will have to suffer the consequences. No one gets to live forever. Not really. We all have expiration dates imprinted on our souls. Even someone as powerful as you can't escape that fact." Tom's face freezes at these words, frozen somewhere between disdain and what can only be fear. Doubt has crept in where it isn't wanted. These words are all of Tom's fears verbalized. Denying these truths has been what's kept Tom going, what's driven him to greater heights than any other wizard in history. Tom has killed and tortured thousands to keep those words from being true, to give himself enough power to be the exception to that one and undeniable rule: that everyone and everything has a time to die. Harry can see that now is the time to strike, to press his advantage. He has to get his point home now before this doubt is eclipsed once more by Tom's denial.

"I can show you if you'd like," Harry offers quickly. "I could show you my memory of what will happen to you if you don't repent your actions. Then you'll know that it's true, without a doubt." Tom just stares at Harry for a moment, blue eyes wide. Then, the bait is taken.

"Legillimens."

_Everything is white, stretching out in all directions. Just endless, bright white. When Tom focuses on that whiteness, though, shapes begin to emerge as though they'd been there the whole time. Columns rise up from the ground, and impossibly tall walls begin to glow on all sides, like sunlight through closed eyelids. That glow hides any edges this world may have, providing something for the more concrete shapes to melt and fade off into. Who knows how big this room is, how high its ceiling, how long its hall. Perhaps it goes on forever._

_Tom inhales, taking in a long, shaky breath. His breathing sounds impossibly loud in his ears, the only source of noise in this entire space. But no, that isn't true. As Tom carefully stands up and looks around, he hears something whimpering off in the distance. A pathetic noise, like the cries of a newborn and the pained death moans of an ancient man all rolled into one. Something about that noise plucks at Tom's heartstrings, tugging at his empathy. The pain in those sobs is too real, too tangible. He has to follow that noise, has to help. Someone has to put that person out of their misery, has to make it better._

_Slowly, Tom turns. There's a bench about twenty feet in front of him. Whether or not that bench has been here the entire time or has only just appeared, Tom doesn't know. There's no way to tell. Slowly, Tom walks cautiously towards the bench, following the desperate whimpers. He expects his footsteps to be loud, to echo around this expansive hall, but they're silent, like footsteps in a dream. Then, he's reached the bench. Tom kneels slowly, apprehension trickling through him. Then he gasps, almost falling over backwards in his hurried attempts to put as much distance between him and that… thing as possible. _

_The creature lying beneath the bench almost looks like a baby. Its head is disproportionately big for its body like a child, but this is clearly no newborn. Babies have cute, rounded features, developed to evoke chemical reactions from those around them so that they'll be adored and cared for. This creature is repugnant. Everything in Tom's being is screaming to get away from it, to look away and try to forget that he'd ever seen such a pathetic creature. But there's something horrifyingly fascinating about it too. The way you have to look at a car wreck on the side of the road. The creature is curled into the fetus position, clutching its raw, bloodied flesh like it's trying in vain to comfort itself. The creature's body is impossibly thin: a skeleton covered in nothing but a thin layer of muscle. It doesn't appear to have any skin, as though someone filleted the monster and then just left it here, raw and exposed and hurting. Even its toes are curled in pain, tucked protectively in towards the creature's body. Occasionally, the creature lets out another horrifying whimper._

"_You can't help," says a calm voice, and Tom looks up to see someone he'd never thought to find up and about again. _

"_Harry, you wonderful boy," continues Dumbledore, taking a step towards Tom and smiling warmly. "You brave, brave man. Let us walk."_

_And then they're walking. White walls slither past on all sides, never changing, never ending. Perhaps, Dumbledore and Tom aren't really moving at all. Except that when Tom looks back over his shoulder to glance at the bench, it's moved farther away from them._

"_Professor, what is that?" Tom asks, unable to hide his fascination and disgust. He has to know. The answer is eating away at him like a disease. He has to know. Dumbledore turns back, spinning slowly around to follow Tom's gaze. A small, sad frown crosses his face for a moment, then it's gone. _

"_Something beyond either of our help," the old man says, his voice flat. "A part of Voldemort sent here to die." _

_Then the scenery blurs around Tom, melting away to be replaced by vibrant color and the cheerful sounds of distant chatter. He's in the Gryffindor common room. Red and gold surrounds him on all sides. He's currently seated in a thick, cushy arm chair in front of a massive stone fireplace. The flames in the grate are soothing. He can feel the heat of them on his skin. Seated beside him is a girl with massively bushy brown hair. Her face is pretty enough, but Tom isn't drawn to her. Besides, she obviously fancies the red-haired boy sitting on her left. Tom is currently pouring over a massive book in his lap. Its binding is a deep, blood red, and he can feel the dark magic surrounding it. It's putting him on edge, making his hand tremble slightly as he turns the page. All he wants to do is throw this book as far away from him as possible, but he can't. There's information here that he needs. There aren't many books about horcruxes around._

"_It says here that Herpo the Foul created the first horcrux. According to this he's the only one who's done it. Aside from Voldemort, that is," comments Tom, his eyes scouring the page through thick, corrective lenses. "He only made one horcrux, though. Apparently he thought that the soul would become too unstable if more were made. Even just ripping your soul into two parts makes it incredibly unstable. The warnings in here look pretty serious."_

"_Isn't there any way of putting yourself back together?" asks the red-headed boy, frowning. Before Tom can answer, the bushy haired girl is speaking, leaning over Tom's shoulder so that she can see the page._

"_Yes, but it would be excruciatingly painful," she says, pursing her lips worriedly._

"_Why? How do you do it?" Tom asks._

"_Remorse. You've got to really feel what you've done. There's a footnote. Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. I can't see Voldemort attempting it somehow, can you?_"

Tom gasps as he emerges from Harry's mind, the boy's memories sliding off him like water from a duck's feathers. It takes him a moment to realize that he's shaking. It takes another moment for him to force himself to stop. The memory of that grotesque, shriveled up creature is burned into the undersides of his eyelids. The memory of its pained groans and pathetic whimpers echo about his head. Is that really what's to become of him? Is this really what he's doomed to if he doesn't repent his actions? It's too horrible to contemplate, too frightening to comprehend.

"Is it really worth all that?" Harry asks, his voice soft and almost sympathetic. "Is temporary power really worth an eternity of misery and pain in limbo, with no chance of change or redemption? Isn't it worth trying to save yourself, trying to repent for the lives you've taken?"

"You say that like I can just flip some switch and change who I am," murmurs Tom. His expression is blank now, his gaze far away. He's calculating, caught up in his thoughts. "But it's not that simple, Potter. I am who I am. I can't change that now, not after everything I've gone through. Even if I wanted to. I don't know how."

"Of course it's that simple," protests Harry, determination filling his lungs with each inhalation. He's so close here, in this moment. Tom is teetering on the edge, wavering on the cusp of a decision that could alter the entire course of history. "All you have to do is choose."

*Author's Note: Aaand another cliff hanger... Sorry, I'm getting kind of mean about these aren't I? Although no matter what Tom chooses, as he said earlier "the pieces are already in motion". And, yes, sorry, you are going to have to wait to find out what that means. ;) Thank you all so much for reading this story! Please review with any feedback you may have! I love to hear from you guys!*


	8. Chapter 8

Watching, Waiting Ch. 8

*Author's Note: A super speedy update for you guys! Couldn't keep you hanging. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed this story. Hearing from you guys really makes my day, and I love to hear your reactions as things progress. Hope you enjoy chapter eight!*

"So, let go, let go  
Jump in  
Oh well, what you waiting for?  
It's all right  
'Cause there's beauty in the breakdown"

-Frou Frou, _Let Go_

Simple is a deceptive word. Usually there's no such thing. It's just an illusion, something to tell yourself. It's a beautiful idea, though. What Harry's trying to sell to Tom right now isn't simple at all. The choice sounds straight forward to the unwary ear: either rule in life and pay the price in death, or repent in life and save your broken soul, but putting that choice into action is not straight forward at all. If only.

"I've given you this opportunity before," comments Harry as he self-consciously tugs his trousers back up his hips and zips them closed. It seems like a good idea to put a layer of fabric between his genitals and the most powerful dark lord in history. "Right before that final battle. Right before I killed you. I asked you to try and repent, to save yourself. Back then you didn't make the right choice; you just scoffed at it like it was nonsense. And you died for it. But it's not nonsense: it's your only shot. Don't make the same mistake twice. Even for you there are only so many chances left. Even story tale cats only have nine lives, and that's fiction. I'd say you're about up if we're doing the math."

"And what am I going to do instead?" spits Tom, frustration and anger lacing each word. "I'm not exactly going to just go off and live the happy-go-lucky white picket fence life, am I? I can't. I just can't. How utterly dull, how completely and utterly meaningless. I am one of the most powerful wizards of all time! No one so much as compares with me! I'm not going to just go off and get some office job somewhere and be content. I'm special, I have power that most other people can only begin to dream of. I'm not going to waste that when I should be writing the pages of history with my deeds. No, with my power and skill I was born to rule, to be worshipped. Not just for this lifetime, but for all of eternity. Your words are pretty, Potter, but they're just that: words. They could never be reality. It's too late."

"No!" objects Harry hurriedly. He can feel the opportunity slipping between his fingers like sand in an hour glass. Some instinct deep within Harry tells him that if he can't convince Tom of this now, he'll never be able to. He has to try harder, has to push more. He can't fail now. The entire course of history depends on it.

"It is possible," he continues earnestly. "There are other ways to gain power aside from murder and fear. There are other ways for you to be special and recognized by the wizarding world than to be a dictator. You've been given a second chance, here. Everyone thinks that Lord Voldemort is dead. You could move on from that title and the identity it goes with. You could be someone else, anyone you want. You can make Isolde Hunter a name for the history books, too, but in a different way. This time you could gain influence the legitimate way, go up the hierarchy because of your magic and skill instead of through bullying and manipulation."

"You paint a pretty picture, Potter," snaps Tom, dragging his wand up and over Harry's cheek in a dangerous caress, "but it doesn't matter. Like I said earlier: it's too late now. None of this matters. My pre-laid plans are already in motion. As we speak the Ministry is falling, taken over from the inside out. They never stood a chance, the fools. They became so lax about security after my supposed death. Complete incompetents. It amazes me that people wanted them in charge of the wizarding world instead of me."

Adrenaline and fear jolt through Harry at these words. How can it be true? How can the Ministry be falling already, so quickly, without any warning? They'd always at least had some inkling that it was coming before. Things would build up: little aggressions preceding the big blows. This can't be happening. Not now. Not while Harry is shirtless and cornered and has only just figured things out. It's too soon, happening too fast. Things can't be this out of control yet, not when only a few days ago peace had reigned. Ron and Hermione don't even know yet. The Order has only just been warned. With a pang, Harry wonders if his message even reached Kingsley in time. After all, Kingsley is the current Minister of Magic. If the Ministry has been hit and a coup is their goal, then Kingsley would be their prime target. Harry wonders if the man is even alive anymore to be warned. Perhaps Harry's Patronus was just informing a corpse.

"But how?" Harry breathes, disbelieving. "I saw one of your meetings. There were only about a dozen of you. How could you take over the entire Ministry with only a dozen followers? You'd be severely outnumbered."

"It's amazing what a dozen people can do if they're the right dozen and they're positioned well." Tom's voice is smug: a pigeon with pompous, puffed up feathers. Harry is silent for a moment, staring unseeingly at a spot just over Tom's shoulder. He has to think fast, has to come up with a plan now. Now is his chance, he can feel it. Now is his only opportunity to turn things around. Even if it is too late to stop Tom's followers, he has their leader here in his grasp. If he can only turn Tom against this idea of invading, then there's a shot. Even if the Ministry has already fallen into the hands of the enemy, if Harry plays this right then perhaps he can convince that enemy to just give it back. There's got to be a way out of this, to save the people he cares about. He's always found a way before. If he can only get a moment to think, to clear his head. He just needs a moment, just a moment… and then, suddenly, like a bullet to the brain, the solution hits him.

"You know what's even more amazing?" blurts Harry, excitement coursing through his words. "The one person who takes out that well-placed dozen. Just hear me out, ok? If you just strolled into the Ministry after it's been taken over and saved the day, then you'd be a hero. Everyone would see how powerful and invincible you are. People would respect and thank you. It would mean instant fame and influence. After all, those people were powerful enough to defeat the entire Ministry, and you took them down. That must mean that you're the strongest of all. No one would ever have to know that The Revivalists were acting under your orders. You could alter their memories so that they wouldn't remember that little detail. Saving the wizarding world from Grindelwald is what made Dumbledore the influential figure he was, and defeating you is what gave me my fame. You could have that, too. And then instead of the villain, something to be fought against, you'd be the hero. This time you could be loved instead of hated."

"Well aren't you vain, Potter?" spits Tom, his tone icy and unforgiving. "You really think that the war was that simple? That black and white? You really think that your side was good and mine evil? The people who fought for me loved me just as much as your side loved you. They _worshipped_ me. Any one of them would have died for me. I was fighting for their rights, to protect the sanctity of magic. Magic has been tainted, watered down. Too long the Purebloods have been forced to sit idly by by the Ministry and watch as the good name of wizard is sullied by muggle blood! It's their right to protect themselves, to protect the future of magic!"

"Oh, yes, of course," snaps Harry, sarcasm dripping from each word. "They were so oppressed by not being allowed to oppress others. Why didn't I see that before? Were your parents both Pureblood witches and wizards, Tom Riddle? And here I was thinking that you were named for your muggle father. You have muggle blood in your veins, Riddle, and you grew up to be one of the most powerful wizards in all of history. I have a muggleborn mother, and I grew up to be the one person strong enough to defeat you. My muggleborn friend is the smartest and most talented witch in our entire year. Muggleborns and half-bloods aren't the doom of magic. They're its salvation. There aren't enough Purebloods left to maintain the wizarding world. You saw what inbreeding had done to that wreck Morfin Gaunt. There's no future in that, not a sustainable one, anyways."

Harry expects for Tom to interrupt, for a curse to strike his face or for angry shouts to drown him out, but Tom remains perfectly silent. Tom is staring intently at Harry's face, frowning slightly as he listens. Harry has Tom's attention now; he doesn't intend to waste it.

"And don't kid yourself," Harry continues, anger building up within him. "Your followers didn't love you. They feared you, and they wanted your power. They saw you as a way up in the world. That's it. Brutish bullies taught new ways to hurt and ladder climbers looking to grab a lift up with you. They wanted what you could give them, but they didn't love you. Love is so much stronger than that. Out in the Forbidden Forest, after your killing curse destroyed the bit of your soul within me, you asked Narcissa Malfoy to check whether or not I was really dead. Guess by then you'd finally learned how untrustworthy killing curses are with me. In that moment, she knew that I was alive. But instead of immediately shouting out that it hadn't worked, she leaned down and asked me whether or not her son Draco was still in the castle. When I said that he was, she lied and told you I was dead. She lied to you to protect her family, to protect her son. She would never have died for you, but she would have died for Draco in a minute. Just like my mother died to protect me. That's love, not how your followers viewed you. In that moment in the woods, love was stronger than fear and the desire for power. It always is. You never were able to understand that, probably because you've never loved anyone in your entire life, and that's why you lost. The prophecy about us stated that I would have power you knew not. Well, that's it, as corny as it sounds. The power I had that you never would was love. Don't make the same mistake again. Not now, when you're almost out of chances to try again."

Tom looks completely stunned, as though someone just slapped him across the face. But he doesn't look angry or offended. He looks like Einstein when he discovered the theory of relativity: trapped in that moment of shocked realization that comes before excitement can even be contemplated. His dark blue eyes are wide beneath slightly raised brows, and his full lips are parted as though in a silent gasp. For a moment, Harry contemplates using this moment of distraction to incapacitate Tom and try to get away, but there is more at stake here than just Harry's safety.

"I'm offering you a way to not only save your eternal soul in death, but to also have access to the power that enabled me to defeat you," murmurs Harry, keeping his voice soft, almost a whisper. He doesn't want to break whatever trance Tom is in right now. "In other words, I'm giving you a way to not only save yourself, but to also possess the one kind of power stronger than any you've ever had access to before. I'm offering you a way to become more than you ever were, more powerful, more righteous, more adored. It's the perfect solution. All you have to do is accept. I could help you understand love, understand how to find value in other people. I could help you repent, and then your soul would finally be whole and strong again. Death isn't the worst thing that can happen to a person, Riddle. Not really. You never used to understand that no matter who told you. Dumbledore, even Grindelwald in his final moments. Not compared to what happens to a soul shattered by murder in limbo, trapped for all time."

Harry leans forward slowly, careful to keep his movements controlled and unthreatening. Tom still looks dazed, his thoughts whirling as he stares into Harry's bright green eyes. In this moment Tom is exposed, vulnerable. Harry continues to tilt forwards, inching slowly through the air towards Tom's pallid face. He feels Tom's wand sliding over his cheek and then back through his hair as he leaves it behind. Tom is perfectly still, perfectly unmoving. Harry tentatively cups the other man's wan cheek, his movements smooth and gentle. Their faces are mere inches apart now, and in this moment Harry is free. Tom's wand isn't pointed at him anymore, and Tom is pliable beneath his fingers. In this moment Tom is trusting him, even if only unconsciously. Harry cannot break that trust now, not in such a pivotal moment. It's all about to work, all finally about to click into place. Harry is almost afraid to breathe in case he ruins it.

"Let me save you, Tom," Harry whispers, his heart pounding in his throat. It's a cheap trick he knows, using the first name to cultivate intimacy, but he'll take all the help he can get right now. "Let me help you save yourself."

It seems to take a moment for these words to sink in. Then, suddenly, Tom's eyes crinkle into mischievous slits and a small, self-satisfied smirk steals across his mouth. Tom leans forwards, closing the distance between Harry and himself. Full lips press softly against Harry's. Just for a second. It's almost tender, almost sweet. The way lovers who've been together a long time comfortably say good morning. It catches Harry off guard, that casual ease. Then, as quickly as it came, it's over.

"That's why I had to get close to you, Potter," breathes Tom, eyeing Harry with satisfaction. "I knew there was something more to you. How could there not be if you managed to defeat me over and over again? No, I knew you had to be special, had to have some kind of power I couldn't understand. Otherwise you wouldn't be worth that prophecy, wouldn't be worth being my rival for all those years. I knew tracking you down would be worth it, one way or another."

Tom reaches out, taking Harry's hand in his. He still looks smug, like a cat with a canary feather sticking out of the corner of its mouth. The choice has been made, history altered. Harry doesn't know whether to be relieved or worried. After all, he's basically just agreed to help Tom fake and manipulate his way into a position of power within the wizarding world. Harry just has to hope that the plan works: that the vision of Tom's shriveled up form in limbo, whimpering and curled in on itself, will keep Tom scared long enough to truly change for the better. After all, there are many ways to gain power. Harry can help Tom achieve that power peacefully, but there's always the risk that at some point, months, perhaps even years down the road, Tom won't be scared anymore. And once power has been gained there are so many things you can do with it. At that point, there will need to be some other force to keep Tom from reverting to his murdering and torturing ways. After all, fear can only last so long. That's why Tom's first attempts to take over the wizarding world failed. No, the only thing powerful enough to last a whole lifetime, the only thing that could possibly keep Tom in check, is love. And Harry has no idea how to teach a sociopath how to feel that.

"Come on," says Tom, excitement seeping into his voice. "We have an appointment at the Ministry of Magic. You might want to put on your shirt."

*Author's Note: During all pivotal moments in history, men are busy pulling up their pants in a hurry. Sorry this chapter was a bit short! This was just the best place to break up the chapters plot-wise. Don't worry, the next chapter will be nice and lengthy to make up for it. I hope that you've liked his most recent addition to the story. I hope that Tom's decision was believable. Please review with any feedback or requests you may have. I love to hear from you guys! Thank you all so much for reading!*


	9. Chapter 9

Watching, Waiting Ch. 9

*Author's Note: Hi, everyone! Welcome back to my story! Thank you all so much for continuing to read this story. I love hearing from all of you, and I'm so honored that you guys are sticking around. I hope you enjoy chapter nine!*

"And he always will, get his thrills, the only way he knows how  
Well it might make you frown  
But he loves, being that dove, roaming where he cares to go  
To a state of mind that no-one knows"

-Imogen Heap, _Angry Angel_

Harry never thought that he'd see Tom Marvolo Riddle standing ankle deep in toilet water. It's just not something you picture when you think about the most powerful dark wizard of all time. Unfortunately, the visitor's entrance is the only way into the Ministry of Magic at the moment. The flu network has been deactivated, the apparition points blocked and warded. The fake toilet stalls are the only way through. Somehow, though, Tom manages to even make balancing in a toilet bowl look graceful. Harry doesn't want to contemplate how.

"Hurry after me, Potter," orders Tom, glancing over his shoulder at the younger boy. "Wouldn't want to have all the fun without you." Then Tom presses down on the silver lever, flushing himself down into the bowels of the Ministry of Magic. Harry pauses for a moment, watching the water in the toilet slowly fill up once more. Now is his chance to escape should he want it. Now is the best opportunity he's going to get to get away. But Harry can't stop now. He has to see this through, has to try to save the Ministry and everyone the Ministry presides over. And if Kingsley is still alive in there, somewhere, somehow, then Harry has to try and help him. Kingsley did so much for Harry and the Order during the war. He can't have survived all of that to die now at the hands of twelve malcontents. Harry steps up into the indent of cool porcelain, using the thick plastic of the stall's partition to balance himself. He can see the toilet water pooling around his feet, can see the subtle ripples cutting through the liquid from his movements, but his feet feel completely dry. Then Harry flushes, and it's as though a great hook has caught him through the stomach and is dragging him downwards. For a moment, Harry is falling, nothing but empty air all around him. Then his feet are placed solidly on a cold, stone floor.

"Good choice," says a smooth voice near Harry's ear and Harry flushes. Clearly Tom had guessed about Harry's moment of indecision, his thoughts of fleeing while he still can. But they both know that it wasn't really a choice. Harry couldn't have done anything other than follow Tom here. It's in his nature, in his very blood. Harry doesn't know how to be anything but the hero. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. It's just who he is. Harry is that person who'll do what needs to be done, who puts himself in harm way to save everyone else. Harry is the person who died to save the people he loves. And just because it's a sacrifice he's already made doesn't mean he won't make it again if he has to. Harry decides to ignore Tom's jibe.

"Why isn't someone here?" asks Harry, looking around warily. His fingers clench around his wand as he unconsciously bends his knees slightly, lowering his center of gravity for the fight he knows must be coming. "This is the only way into the Ministry at the moment. This would be the key place for them to protect."

"Oh, yes," agrees Tom casually, his voice as light and airy as though they were merely discussing a show. "The man who was supposed to be in charge of this sector is behind you, actually." Immediately, Harry spins around, wand extended, ready to hex whichever Revivalist is approaching. But the man behind him is no more than a lump on the ground, a mask surrounded by pools of black fabric. Clearly the man is unconscious, stunned already. Harry lowers his wand, his heart pounding in his chest from the adrenaline spike.

"There were definitely better ways you could have phrased that sentence…" Harry grumbles, glaring up into Tom's smirking face.

"Just testing you," replies Tom innocently.

"Have you modified his memory yet?" asks Harry. It's key that none of the Revivalists remember that Tom is their leader or that Voldemort is alive and well once more. The whole plan rides on it. If even one of the Revivalists remembers or gets away, then everything is ruined. Tom has to be the hero here. Lord Voldemort has to be gone. It's the only way this ridiculous scheme can function.

"Of course," snaps Tom, impatience coloring his voice. Apparently his good mood is already beginning to wear thin. "Let's get going. Time is limited. And we have a whole Ministry to reclaim." With that, Tom takes off, leading Harry along at a brisk pace down the wide corridor. As they pass between silent, stone walls, a strong sense of Déjà vu overtakes Harry. This is so like that night back in his fifth year: the same tension, the same knowledge that a fight lies up ahead, bad guys around every corner. The air is just as still, as well, just as empty. Part of that stillness is the lateness of the hour, but there's more to it than that. It's the stillness of a morgue, that awful, dense silence of bodies whose consciousnesses have long since dispersed. It gives Harry chills.

Then, the pair rounds the corner and the main lobby expands before them. Low ceilings shoot upwards to become high and arched, walls spread out in each direction, going from narrow and enclosed to open and far apart. At the center of the room rests a massive statue: new and shiny and clean. The old statue from Lord Voldemort's regime has been torn down, and in its place sits a piece entitled "Tolerance". Two stone figures stand facing one another, hands clasped in a welcoming handshake. One of the figures holds a wand in his free hand, the other, a crude imitation of a mobile phone. A wizard and a muggle peacefully coexisting, working together side by side. Harry flushes slightly when he sees it. The statue of the wizard was made in Harry's image after the war, despite Harry's numerous and very vocal protests. Harry did manage to keep them from naming it after him, though. The artist wasn't allowed to say that the statue is Harry, only that it was inspired by Harry. Currently, however, there's a third figure hanging amongst the other two. A man's corpse, clothed in the uniform of a Ministry Official hangs there, suspended by his tie from the clasped hands of the stone muggle and wizard. Blood spatters his shirt and drips from his pant leg, staining the statue's marble base. His skin is unnaturally pale. This isn't what catches Harry's attention, though. At the foot of the statue stands a huddle of Ministry workers. At first Harry thinks that they're alright, that they've just been herded there to be kept an eye on, but then, as he looks closer, he sees that their eyes are all a milky white and glazed over, like glass that's been breathed on by a warm mouth. These people are all dead; dead and still walking about, ready to do their creator's bidding. Inferi.

"You had your people turn all of the night workers into Inferi?" Harry hisses at Tom, fury dripping from each quiet word. Tom just looks smug, a tiny smirk hovering about his lips as he appraises his handy work.

"Clever, isn't it?" Tom whispers back, watching approvingly as the sea of dead Ministry employees begins to turn, sensing the life of the two intruders. "We used the Ministry's own employees to tear down the Ministry. Friend attacking friend, coworker tearing off the head of coworker. It really was a rather ingenious plan, if I do say so myself. We took their army, took the very people meant to defend this place, and made them into ours: our force, our army, our people. And it's so much harder to fight back against people you know and like, even if they aren't really those people anymore. As you said yourself, Potter. Love is a powerful force. Why not use it to our advantage?" Harry watches Tom in horror, disgust and repulsion filling him with each word the other man speaks. How can he save a man like this? How can there be any redemption for someone who finds it amusing to turn friend against friend, who is proud of the idea to use people's corpses to kill their loved ones? How can Tom ever be taught to value human life if this is what he thinks of others? Harry is torn from his dismal thoughts, however, when one of the Inferi lets out a mournful, guttural howl. The Inferi have located the source of life in the room. The Inferi charge.

Dead limbs creak slightly as they are forced into motion. The bodies lurch, unable to balance or coordinate their movements as they did in life. Death makes them clumsy. Not clumsy enough not to be dangerous, though. What they lack in coordination, they make up for in sheer strength, strength much greater than they were capable of in life. Tom is un-phased. With a flick of his wand, a ring of fire bursts into existence. This fire isn't like any docile candle flame, neat and tidy and flickering, this fire rages and consumes. The flames blast forwards with the force of a tornado, leaping about and consuming the freshly dead bodies as though they were mere paper. It almost seems as though the fire is sentient, like it's searching out the Inferi and hunting them for sport. As Harry looks closer, he can see figures amongst the flames, orange and yellow bodies twisting in on themselves and then fading away. This is no ordinary fire that Tom has conjured. This is Fiendfyre, but not like Harry has seen before. This is Fiendfyre properly cast, by a man powerful enough to actually control it. It's a fearsome sight.

In moments, the Inferi are nothing but ash dusting the floor. For a minute the fire roils, as though confused as to what to consume next. Then, with another flick of Tom's wand, the Fiendfyre vanishes. The entire lobby is nothing but ash now. No desks, no people, no statue. To the fire they were all equal, all just fuel. And now they're gone.

"Sorry, Potter. Looks like I've accidentally destroyed your statue," comments Tom innocently, almost but not quite managing to sound remorseful. Harry just shrugs.

"I never wanted them to build that thing in the first place," he admits. "I certainly won't miss it." Tom just hmms absently in response, seemingly disappointed at Harry's apathy.

"Well, come on, Potter," Tom orders, striding off across the burnt and twisted remains of the Ministry lobby. "We'd better get upstairs. If your precious Minister of Magic is still alive, that's where he'll be. They have orders to trap him if they can't kill him themselves." Harry's expression settles into a grim frown, anger and determination coursing through him. Tom says that in such a detached way. _They had orders_ as if it wasn't Tom giving those orders, as if Tom has nothing to do with it at all. But he does. Tom has everything to do with it. The people whose ashes are currently crunching beneath Harry's trainers are dead and gone because of Tom. Even if they weren't killed by Tom's own hand, they were killed at his word, his command. Harry cannot forget this. No matter how charmingly Tom explains it all away or how cleverly he shirks blame, these deaths rest on Tom's conscience. If he even has one.

Harry is about to push the button to call one of the massive metal lifts when long, slender fingers curl around his wrist, holding him in place with surprising strength.

"Don't!" exclaims Tom, eyeing the lift suspiciously through narrowed eyes. "It's been jinxed." Tom pulls Harry's hand back, lowering it down forcefully by Harry's side. He's holding Harry's arm so tightly it hurts. When Tom finally lets go a second later, his fingers have left their mirror image on Harry's arm, decorating it in long, red welts. Tom raises his wand, pointing it at the elevator doors. He casts a spell that Harry doesn't know, probably a diagnostic spell of some sort. Immediately the elevator doors shudder, rattling audibly in their frame. Then three different colored columns of steam blossom out of the metal, streaming upwards to dissipate up by the ceiling. One green, one violet, and the last a sickly shade of yellow, like the flesh of someone with jaundice. Tom studies the steam for a moment, then nods slightly to himself. Clearly, this smoke means something to him, even if it means nothing to Harry. Tom's wand slashes through the air as he casts a rapid sequence of spells, one after another. Harry only recognizes a few of them: counter-curses, charms to quiet and calm, the kinds of spells that put other enchantments to sleep for a while.

"You can push the button now," announces Tom, sounding satisfied. Harry gives the other boy a suspicious look, then, slowly pushes the button. Immediately the button illuminates and the elevator whirs, calling the lift back down to the lobby. A second later the elevator dings, a soft, self-satisfied tinkle, and the lift doors slide open. Tom and Harry quickly file in.

"Top floor," instructs Tom and Harry obligingly presses the uppermost button marked "P" for penthouse. The Minister's suite. The elevator doors slide shut, blocking off the view of the charred and blackened lobby. Then the lift shudders into motion, moving jerkily upwards.

"You should get behind me," comments Tom, tugging on Harry's arm as he maneuvers the younger boy around to stand just behind him. "It's important that mine is the first face they see. If Harry Potter stumbles out of the elevator right in front of them they'll kill you before I can stop them."

"Right," agrees Harry, hurriedly shuffling further behind Tom's slender frame. "You first then."

The rest of the elevator ride seems to take forever, even though it's probably only seconds. Harry can feel his heart pounding in his chest, adrenaline pumping through his veins with each contraction of muscle. He's on edge, body poised on the brink of fight or flight. He's pressed close against Tom's back, wedged between Tom and the wall of the lift. It's an odd dichotomy, feeling the cold of the metal on one side and the warmth of Tom's body on the other. Tom could step forwards, put a little space between them, but he doesn't. Part of Harry suspects that Tom enjoys knowing that he's got Harry cornered, trapped against the back of the lift. Then, the elevator slows to a stop and all of Harry's consciousness focuses on the shiny metal of the lift doors.

"Just let me do the talking," whispers Tom, his words barely audible even in the silence of the lift. Then, the doors slide open, and two men wearing black metal masks are pointing wands right at their faces.

"Lord!" gasps one of the men, his eyes going wide behind his mask's narrow eye-slits. Immediately the man lowers his wand, slapping at his partner's arm until the other man does the same. Then both men sink to their knees, heads bowed, too afraid to so much as look at their leader.

"Rise," commands Tom, his voice deeper and more formal than usual. Appearances matter; impression is everything. The Dark Lord's voice must be deep and authoritative. It's all part of the image. The men hurry to obey, easing upright although their eyes remain downcast.

"What's the status here?" asks Tom, pushing past the bowing men and out into the hall. As he walks, he reaches out, snatching Harry's wrist and dragging the other boy along behind him. He holds him close, so close in fact that Harry almost bumps into him with each step.

"Everything is going according to plan," says one of the men, still staring down at the floor. "We've received confirmation from each floor now. They've all been successfully taken. There weren't that many people here this late at night. We were unable to take out the Minister, though. He heard what was happening and was able to barricade himself in his office before we could get there."

"Excellent," proclaims Tom. "Well done. There's been a change in plans, though. I need you to call everyone up here now."

"Everyone?" asks one of the men, clearly startled. Abandoning etiquette, the masked man looks up, meeting Tom's cold, blue eyes. In doing so, he spots Harry, recognizing the scar on his forehead for the first time.

"Potter!" the man exclaims, and in an instant his wand is pointed straight at Harry's throat. A second later, a jet of violet light strikes the man in the stomach, causing him to double over as he screams in pain.

"Don't you dare point your wand at him like that!" bellows Tom, his façade of calm decorum gone, consumed entirely by pure fury. "He's mine, do you hear me? He is under MY protection! You shall not so much as look at him in a threatening way without suffering dire consequences. Am I understood?" The man is bent over, clutching his side where Tom's curse hit him. He's still trembling, the remnants of that pain still hovering about his quivering frame. He does manage to nod, though.

"Yes, my lord," he gasps, his breaths coming out in shallow pants. "Of course, my lord."

"Now then," continues Tom, his voice still angry but no longer yelling, "do not question me again. Call everyone here. Now. I require them at once."

"Yes, My Lord," replies the man who wasn't punished. He reaches one gloved hand into the folds of his dark robes, pulling out a small, black book. He opens it up to the first page, and using the tip of his wand as a quill, begins to write. As his wand skitters across the page, words appear in deep, black ink only to vanish an instant later, seeping away into the parchment. The sight makes Harry shiver despite himself, memories of another book that behaved similarly flitting across his vision. Harry glances up at Tom out of the corner of his eye, silently asking whether or not this resemblance is just a coincidence. Tom's slightly smug expression is all the answer Harry needs.

The masked man waits a moment, staring down patiently at the blank parchment. Then, a moment later, words begin to appear, bleeding up out of the parchment as though written by a ghost.

"They're coming, my lord. All sectors responding," the man declares, closing the little black booklet and tucking it away once more.

"Good," replies Tom. "Then we wait. There's no point in continuing until everyone else is here to hear the new plan." Then Tom turns to Harry.

"You should head over to where Kingsley has barricaded himself in his office. Things will be simpler if I don't have to keep re-explaining your presence. Give me five minutes. I shouldn't need any longer than that to debrief them." Harry nods, knowing what Tom means. This isn't something he's dying to see anyways. It's not easy to witness betrayal, to see people thrown overboard by someone they trust so completely.

"Alright," Harry murmurs. "Five minutes." Then he takes off, rounding the corner at a run. The hallway leading to Kingsley's office is short, and it only takes about thirty seconds at a jog to reach it. Behind him, he can hear the faint ding of the elevator. It has begun.

"Kingsley! Hey, Kingsley!" Harry calls through closed doors. He can feel the wards embedded in the wood humming all around him, wards too old and powerful to belong to Kingsley alone. This office has housed generations of Ministers of Magic, and each has added his or her own protections to the room. By now the room is practically impenetrable. No group of thugs, no matter how determined or powerful, was ever going to break in here.

"It's me, Harry! Harry Potter! Can you hear me? Kingsley are you alright in there?"

For a moment, nothing but silence meets Harry's words. Then, Harry can hear a shuffling noise and some loud thumps. Finally, a soft, cautious voice whispers:

"Harry? Is that really you?"

The voice is deep and rich and oh so familiar, and it warms Harry's heart to hear it. Kingsley really is alive. More than that, he seems to be just fine.

"Yes, it's me," Harry breathes. "We've come to rescue you."

"Harry, you've got to get out of here!" exclaims Kingsley, worry filling his rich voice. There's an edge there, a panic that's uncharacteristic of the usually calm man. "There were two men guarding this door. I'm sure they'll be back soon. They've got an army of Inferi, Harry. All the workers, everyone. Everyone who was working here besides me is dead, and they're using their bodies. You have to get out now, while you can."

"No, Kingsley, it's alright," soothes Harry. "We've taken care of that. My friend is dealing with those men now. But we've got to get you out of here. We need to get word to all of the aurors who weren't here tonight. We need to deal with the men we've incapacitated before they're revived."

"You've already dealt with the intruders? Potter, I saw those men kill everyone on this entire floor. How many people did you bring with you?"

"Just one other person," replies Harry.

"Just one?" echoes Kingsley, disbelieving. "Only you, Potter. Alright, stand back, ok? I'll get these doors open." Quickly Harry steps back, putting as much distance as possible between himself and those doors. Not an inch too much, either. A second later the doors burst open, exploding outwards and swinging the entire breadth of the hallway, narrowly missing the tip of Harry's nose on their way past. And there, standing in the newly exposed doorway, is the tall figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic and member of the Order of the Phoenix. He's not as unscathed as Harry had hoped, though. His left arm hangs limp at his side, the dark blue sleeve of his robes rolled up to reveal that a massive chunk of flesh is missing from the center of his forearm. Blood trickles from the wound, leaking down onto his pant leg and the top of his left shoe. That's not all, though. Beneath that bloody gash, Kingsley's flesh is badly burnt, transitioning from angry, red, skinless flesh to charred and blackened fingertips.

"Kingsley," Harry gasps, staring at the man's bloodied arm. "What happened to you?"

"One of the Inferi," Kingsley explains, wincing in pain as he looks down at his own ruined appendage. "My secretary Mary, actually. She… it jumped me, sunk its teeth into my arm. Managed to bite away a pretty big chunk of flesh before I was able to burn it off me. Inferi dislike fire, after all, like all creatures of darkness." For a moment, Kingsley is silent, frowning down at his arm. Then he's talking again, his voice quiet and mournful.

"Poor Mary," he murmurs, his voice heavy with unshed tears. "She had a husband, you know, and two kids. Been working here for three years now. I should have acted faster, should have just taken her out right away, but I hesitated. I couldn't… well, I just couldn't bring myself to set her on fire like that. Not at first anyways."

"We're all human," says Harry softly. "And that's no bad thing. Hesitating like that, well, it's understandable. It's a horrible thing they did, turning friends into enemies like that. But we'll get them. We'll make them pay for what they did."

"Indeed," agrees a voice just behind Harry. A familiar voice. "They will suffer the consequences for their actions." In an instant, Kingsley's wand is up, pointed straight between Tom's eyes. Harry freezes for a moment, body tense. Now is the moment. Now is the time when his decision must be finalized. Is he really going to lie for the man who killed his family, who killed Remus and Tonks and Fred and so many other people Harry loves and cares for? The man responsible for the deaths of everyone here? Is he really going to help Tom Riddle gain power once more, even if it is through more legitimate channels this time? Harry looks up, meeting Kingsley's stern, dark eyes: hardened and ready for a fight.

"Kingsley," Harry says solemnly, his voice sounding oddly stiff and formal in his own ears, "meet Professor Isolde Hunter. The man who just saved the entire Ministry of Magic."

*Author's Note: and so concludes chapter nine. I just want to say that I know you guys still have questions about when Tom made the horcrux, and why he suddenly agreed to go along with Harry's plans/what his agenda is, etc. And I wanted to tell you that those questions will be answered. I promise. I haven't forgotten those little details. I just can't give all of the answers away at once. What fun would that be? ;) Anyways, thank you all so much for reading. Please review with any feedback or requests you may have. I love to hear your reactions! Until next time.*


	10. Chapter 10

Watching, Waiting Ch. 10

*Author's Note: Alright, who's amazing with super fast, lightning like updates? Me! Two chapters back to back in two days. Not too shabby if I do say so myself. Anyways, this chapter I'm finally going to give you a little insight into Tom's point of view on everything. I think it's finally time that I gave you guys a little glimpse into his head and emotions. Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed this story thus far, and I would especially like to thank those dedicated individuals who have reviewed each and every chapter. I appreciate your feedback and support so much! Enjoy!*

"I'm a slow motion accident  
Lost in coffee rings and fingerprints  
I don't want to feel anything  
But I do  
And it all comes back to you"

-Imogen Heap, _Hear Me Out_

Tom sits in his office, the old leather of his arm chair soft beneath his fingertips. He's supposed to meet Harry soon, but he still has a few minutes, still has a little time to himself. Until then, Tom is reminiscing, reliving the events of a few days ago.

Lights had flashed before Tom's eyes, twinkling like stars, bursting over and over again until even when Tom's eyes were closed he could still see the imprints of them. People had clambered over each other to see him, to touch him, to shake his hand. Reporters had shouted, desperate to be heard and responded to. It had been wonderful. It had been all Tom could have wanted and more. To be so sought after, to be so adored. To be the savior of the entire Ministry of Magic. That was a kind of power not even money could buy. And Harry had simply given it to him, had turned him into everyone's hero with just a few well-placed words and a simple, straightforward idea. Wonderful. In that moment, Tom's doubts about Harry's plan had vanished completely, whited out by camera flashes.

Until that moment, Tom hadn't quite been sure why he'd listened to Harry, why that boy's words had somehow managed to sway him when no others had before. The truth is that, underneath layers and layers of vanity and narcissism, Tom is afraid. Deeply, deeply afraid. Afraid down to his very marrow. He can't get Harry's memories out of his head. That shuddering, whimpering, pitiful creature. His future. What he's doomed to if he cannot find it within himself to repent. It haunts him, is burned into his very retinas. He can't escape it. Tom has seen himself defeated over and over, has heard how Harry has crushed him not just once, but eight times, killing eight segments of his soul. Immortality, which once seemed to be just within his grasp, now seems entirely out of reach. How can he live forever when he's already been killed eight times, by just a boy, someone a fraction of his age? No, Tom is afraid. He is mortal, he is flesh, he is vulnerable. Someday, possibly someday soon, Tom will die for good. It's not a truth he can escape anymore, not something that can be denied any longer. The truth has caught up to him finally, after seventy years of running along after him, and it's crushing him. Tom needs to feel powerful again, needs to feel in control of his own fate, his own destiny. Tom has to keep himself from becoming that shriveled, bloodied thing.

This time around, Tom had done exactly what he'd always done before: he'd concocted a plan to take over the Ministry, to take a position of power by force and fear. People who had desired his power and influence had flocked to him, donning metal masks and branding themselves with a new mark: the mark of the Revivalists, the symbol of the Ankh. But somewhere, deep down, even as the Ministry was already falling, Tom had known it wasn't going to work. He'd tried this before, not just once, but multiple times. And each time he'd fallen, murdered by Harry's own hand. Even Tom can see the pattern here, as much as he doesn't want to. If he continues the way he's been going, he's going to fail. And this time he doesn't have any lives left. His soul has already been split too many times, is already too unstable. He can't break himself apart any more. There are only so many pieces a soul can be in before it shatters, unable to hold together any longer. But Tom doesn't know what else he can do. He needs that power, needs to be special. Then, only then, can he be safe. Then, only then, when he's invincible and surrounded by loyal followers ready to give their lives for him, will the fear finally go away.

And then Harry had said it, those magic words. He'd given Tom another way. A way to have both power and security. A way to satisfy all of his mind's urges without dooming his soul to that horrible fate. Sure, most of what Harry had said was bollocks, but his plan had been solid: his plan to make Tom into the hero instead of the villain, to gain influence through love instead of prejudice and fear. In that moment, Tom's fear had taken over. Tom's doubts about his own plan had rushed to the surface, taking over his mind until he couldn't think things through clearly any more. Tom had needed to act, had had no choice but to go along with what Harry said. And that scared him, too.

But Tom has seen himself die too many times now. He can't do it anymore, can't lose any more of his soul to the abyss, to an eternity of pain and suffering in limbo, unable to move on and unable to go back: stuck, stagnant, and afraid. Tom needs to see something else in his future, anything else. And Harry gave that to him. He has no choice but to cling to it.

Now, though, Tom wonders why he's never tried this before. To gain power through dark magic takes time and patience. It takes working in the shadows, working through puppets and spies and secrets. Never moving directly, never obviously. You can't give them something concrete to fight against. You have to keep them wondering, unable to tell for certain who's yours and who isn't. You have to keep them afraid of their own shadows, not able to trust anyone for fear that they might be working for you. You have to keep them too afraid to fight back, and unfortunately, that never lasts long. There's always someone to lead them, someone willing to stand up and fight for the ones they love. And once that someone surfaces, people flock to them. A leader like that makes people forget their fear. In the past, that figure had been Harry and the Order, but even if they'd fallen, someone else would have taken their place. There's always someone brave enough to put aside their fear. But moving up this way, by pandering to the popular views of the masses, one can move directly, can be a real, concrete public figure. Not just a shadow. Not a name whispered in fear, but a name shouted in joy. It's intoxicating.

The truth is that unless people are really miserable and afraid, they won't fight back. Rebellions don't take place when people are only mildly discontent. Rebellions take place when people are starving to death, or being raped and murdered by the hundreds. You have to push someone to the extremes before they'll fight back. If things are only mildly unpleasant, then other things take precedence. People like their comfortable, cushy lives. They won't risk losing that unless things are really bad. Tom hadn't realized this at the time. He'd pushed people too far, had murdered and tortured too many. He'd forced people into action, had made it impossible for them to do otherwise. But this way, gaining power through popularity, people have nothing to fight against. People don't resent others for having power. Not really. Sure, a few jealous, bitter people will curse and complain, but only a few. People only resent when someone misuses their power. So long as Tom doesn't torture or murder anyone, no one will fight back. So long as he allows people to live their happy, cushy little lives and doesn't ruin their safely familiar routines, the wizarding world would happily let him lead them. He just needs to charm them, just needs to keep being "the good guy". It's so simple, really.

That press conference outside of the Ministry of Magic had shown Tom how simple it could be, how easily people would take him into their hearts. Tom has never experienced this kind of reverie before from people, not of that magnitude at any rate. Tom knows that his future self was worshipped by his followers, adored for his power and his ideas. But Tom himself has never experienced this. Those memories belong to an older version of himself. A version dead and gone, now. Tom mourns the loss of those memories. He knows that his older self uncovered secrets no one else has ever come close to, has delved into areas of dark magic that no one else has ever been strong enough to try or understand. Those secrets are lost now. Dead with their host. All Tom has now are words, other people's memories of what has happened since Tom's twenty-second birthday. They're just stories to him, though. Just tales about a person he hasn't become. It's nowhere near enough, not even close to adequate, but it's all Tom has. And that distance from the events of his future self has helped Tom see things clearly enough to break his pattern. That distance is the only thing that could possibly help him to save his soul now.

If there's one thing those stories have taught Tom, though, one thing history has shown him, it's that Harry Potter is important. Harry Potter and he are connected in ways that no one else in the world is. They're joined by prophecy and history and murder. By their abilities and their upbringings and their very souls. Tom had known that in order to understand the actions of his future self, in order to learn about whom he had become and what had gone wrong so many times, he had to find Harry Potter, had to be close to him. And so Tom had come to Hogwarts, applying for the very position he'd always wanted in his own time. All to finally catch a glimpse of the boy responsible for his death, the boy strong enough to kill him over and over again. And now that very boy is trying to save him.

Tom isn't sure why Harry is trying to help him repent. It doesn't really make sense. From what Tom has been told, his future self is responsible for everything that's ever gone wrong in Harry's life: his parent's death, his consequent upbringing with the abusive Dursley family, the deaths of many other friends and loved ones during the war. Harry should want him to suffer, should want him to become that skeletal being trapped forever in limbo. Harry should want nothing but revenge on Tom, but he doesn't. He seems to sincerely want to help. Tom can't quite wrap his head around why. Perhaps some ingrained sense of Gryffindor nobility: a hero- complex gone out of control. Maybe by now the younger boy is just too used to saving other people to do anything else.

There's a knock on the door, pulling Tom reluctantly from his train of thought. The door tentatively swings open and Harry steps in, not bothering to wait for an invite. He's carrying a box beneath one arm, something big and bulky and awkward to hold. There's a pathetically hopeful little smile on his face. What does he really think will come of this? These meetings to make Tom repent. Does he really think that Tom's going to become some kind of saint? Someone who's just going to move out to the suburbs and bake pies and hand out candy to children on Halloween? But still, after everything Harry is the only person who cares about Tom enough to even try and save him. As useless as this may be, Harry is the only person willing to forgive Tom, to offer him even a chance at repentence. Tom still doesn't understand why he's been given that chance, but he has to try. The fear is still eating at him, still rests just beneath the surface, ready to rise up again at any moment. Tom can't be doomed to that fate. He can't. He just can't. If death really is truly inevitable, then Tom has to try and save himself.

"Right," says Harry awkwardly, breaking the silence. "Well, I was thinking that maybe the best way to go about this is to try and make you empathize with at least one of your victims. For convenience's sake, I was thinking that maybe Elliot Fisher would be the best option since he was your most recent victim, so it would be easiest to get information on him."

Harry walks over to Tom's desk, setting his box down and then opening it to reveal a deep, stone basin within. A pensieve. Nestled alongside the pensieve are several vials of silver fluid.

"I talked to some people who were close to Elliot: his grandmother, his best friend, and the girl he had a crush on," continues Harry. "They were willing to give me a few of their memories of him. Very helpful, really. I was thinking that we could look at them together, you know, kind of discuss them as we see them. Sound good?"

Tom just nods in response. Honestly, it sounds like a rather foolish plan to him, but he can't think of anything better so he might as well go along with it.

"Right, well, shall we start with the crush then? Her name's Laura Green. I don't think the order of the memories really matters much." Not bothering to wait for an affirmation, Harry tugs the stopper free from one of the glass vials, upending the bottle over the pensieve. Silver fluid trickles out to pool in the basin below. The memories glisten beneath the lamplight, shimmering like melted metal. Tom glances at Harry once, then slowly leans forward, dipping his face into the pensieve.

_At first, Tom feels like he's falling. All around him currents of a black substance spiral down with him, swirling like ink in water. Then, suddenly, the black fluid disperses, flashing outwards to create a recognizable landscape beneath Tom's feet. Tom is standing on a hill. There's thick grass beneath his feet, dark green and damp with early morning dew, but Tom can't feel it. He can only see._

_ He's in a suburban neighborhood. In front of him, cookie-cutter houses stretch out in every direction, each almost identical to its neighbor. On this side of the street, though, lies a grassy field with a few scraggly trees. Perhaps it's some sort of park. More likely, though, it's probably a lot that just hasn't been developed on yet._

_ In front of Tom stands a young boy, perhaps around fourteen years old. He has light brown hair curling off in every direction. Clearly it's been a while since his last haircut. His face is forgettable, not bad looking, but not particularly good looking either. His nose is slightly too large to ever really be handsome, but the rest of his features aren't so bad. He's tall, but his body is slim and gangly, not quite filled out yet. He obviously still has some growing to do before his body will be one of a man and not just that of a boy. Currently, the boy looks nervous, his face scrunched in on itself in worry. He's pacing back and forth, muttering something to himself under his breath. Occasionally, Tom can make out an entire phrase such as "Hey there, Laura," or "Hi there, I just happened to be in the area and-." It would seem that the boy is rehearsing some speech, trying to find the right words. Clenched tightly in one fist is a small bouquet of pink and white roses._

_ "So," says a voice from behind Tom. When the boy in front of him doesn't respond, Tom realizes that the voice is talking to him. Tom quickly turns around._

_ "What do you think Elliot is feeling right now?" asks Harry, nodding pointedly in the direction of the pacing teen. Tom frowns, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. What is this, therapy? But he plays along, for now at least. Tom turns, focusing his attention back on the curly haired boy._

_ "Nervous," Tom says, eyeing the boy up and down. "Based on the flowers and whom this memory belongs to, I would guess that he's gearing himself up to talk to that girl. Pathetic. As though minor word choice will really make a difference. Either she'll be attracted to him or she won't. It's as simple as that. Women are all so straight forward, really. They like to be charmed, like the feeling of being pursued, but really, when it boils down to it, charm can only increase attraction. It can't kindle it out of nothing."_

_ "Ok…" mutters Harry, sounding rather taken aback. "Um, right. Well, pretend for a moment that you aren't Tom Riddle. Pretend that charming women isn't something that comes easily. Imagine that it's really important to you that this girl likes you, and that you have no idea whether she will. It's a big risk that he's going to go talk to her, and his feelings will really be hurt if she says no. His self-esteem will probably take a bit of a beating, too. Try to imagine what it would be like for it to be important what that girl thinks of you." At this point, Tom shoots Harry a skeptical look._

_ "I know, I know," snaps Harry, "but just try. Come on, close your eyes maybe, and just try to put yourself in his shoes." Reluctantly, Tom obeys, allowing his eyes to slip shut. Alright, the girl is important. The girl IS important. It matters what she says and how she reacts. It matters… Tom's eyes snap open. This isn't working. The girl isn't important. None of this is important. It's just some silly boy with a silly crush on some silly girl. I mean really, she's just some girl. Then something occurs to Tom._

_ "How are we seeing this?" Tom asks, suddenly looking around curiously. "Isn't this the girl's memory? Shouldn't we be following her instead of this boy?"_

_ "Not 'this boy'," interjects Harry. "Elliot. Elliot Fisher. The whole point is to start seeing him as a real person here, so you might try to use his actual name. And we're seeing this because she's walking up the street towards us now. Obviously he thinks that she's at her house, but she isn't. That's her now." Harry points at a young, dark haired girl strolling happily up the street. At her side, with one arm looped around her shoulders, is a tall, good-looking young man about her same age. They look quite comfortable with each other. The girl keeps looking up at the boy and smiling, a blush forming on her porcelain cheeks._

_ It isn't until the couple is almost upon them that Elliot finally spots them._

_ "Hi, Elliot!" calls the girl, waving at Elliot politely. For a moment, Elliot is frozen, his eyes wide and his muscles tense, like a deer caught in a car's headlights. He takes in the other boy's arms around the girl's shoulders, sees the way that she's leaning into the other boy's frame. Elliot's face falls, his hopeful expression melting away into sadness. Then he forces a polite smile._

_ "Hey there, Laura," Elliot replies, slightly too late to comply with social norms. "How are you?"_

_ "Good, thanks," says Laura. "What are you doing all the way out here?"_

_ "Oh, um, I'm just meeting someone," Elliot splutters, obviously making something up on the spot. "One of my friends lives just a few streets over. I was just on my way there. What a coincidence, eh?" Elliot forces a chuckle. Tom winces. This is so pathetic it's almost painful to watch._

_ "Yeah," agrees Laura, her attention already slipping off of Elliot and back onto the boy at her side. "Definitely a coincidence. Well, you have fun with your friend, Elliot. I'll see you around, ok?"_

_ "Oh, um, yeah. You too. You guys have fun."_

_ "Thanks," says Laura, smiling politely once more. "Bye now."_

_ "Bye," calls Elliot, his voice too impossibly cheerful to be genuine. As Laura and the other boy wander off together, Elliot stays put, just watching her as she walks away. His whole body is limp, like a marionette whose strings have been cut. Just within ear shot, Harry hears the other boy whisper to Laura, "Who was that guy?"_

_ Laura whispers back, "Oh, nobody really. Just some guy I see around sometimes. He comes to the shop a lot during my shift." Her tone is casual, dismissive. There's no affection at that voice, no hint that she cares at all about Elliot, not even as a friend. She might as well have been discussing a complete stranger. At this, Elliot's hands tighten, clenching into fists at his sides. The flower stems snap beneath his fingers, crumpled up into mere wads of greenery and petals._

_ Just as the world begins to dissolve into black tendrils once more, Elliot throws the flowers to the ground, his face scrunched up in obvious pain, almost as if he's about to cry._

Tom pulls his head up out of the pensieve. A second later, Harry follows suit, eyeing Tom hopefully.

"So, um, should we, you know, discuss what you've just seen?" asks Harry, cocking his head slightly to the side.

Tom stares into Harry's emerald eyes, unable to focus on what he's saying. Unthinkingly, Tom reaches out, brushing aside Harry's fringe to reveal his jagged, lightning-bolt scar. Harry immediately goes stiff, freezing beneath Tom's fingertips. This scar is both Tom's history and his future. It marks the moment of his first death, the first time of many that Harry Potter would kill him. And Harry had just been a baby, nothing more than a wailing infant whose parents had both died in front of his eyes. Tom wonders why his future self didn't examine that moment more, why his future self wouldn't, couldn't figure out what had gone wrong. It's so simple really, looking back on it. Harry's mother had died to save him. She had spent her last moments not thinking of her own safety or the possibility of her own death, but instead pleading for the life of her son. In that moment, Lily Potter's love for her son had been stronger than Voldemort's already broken and weakened soul. In that moment, Voldemort should have seen it, should have realized that he'd already lost. Because Harry never lost that power. Even after Voldemort took Harry's blood into his own body and made Lily's protection ineffective, Harry still had something Voldemort never would. Harry had people he loved, people who loved him in return, and that was more powerful than even a lifetime of learning the dark arts. And the signs had all been there the very first time Voldemort had encountered the boy. He should have learned, should have seen it, but he hadn't. He hadn't wanted to. And so the pattern had continued. Voldemort had been defeated again and again by something he refused or maybe was unable to understand. Tom understands now, though. Now, he can see the truth in Harry's bright green eyes.

Tom stares at the boy he's been obsessing over for months, whom he has worked so hard to be close to. Tom needs to possess the kind of power that Harry has. He needs these lessons to work, needs to learn how to connect with other people. And learning about Elliot Fisher is not the way. No, if there's one person out there whose value Tom could ever see, it is not the oh-so-ordinary Elliot Fisher.

"This is useless," Tom declares flatly. "I don't want to learn more about Elliot Fisher's average, pathetic little life. I want to try and empathize with a different victim of mine, someone much more important. I want to learn more about you, Potter. The memories I want to see are yours."

*Author's Note: And there you have it. I hope you guys have enjoyed getting to learn a little more about Tom's perspective and what he's feeling at the moment. I hope that it's begun to clear up a few things for you. And, don't worry, you will get more details about what happened at the Ministry after they rescued Kingsley and how this version of Tom came to be. I know there are some details there that need a little explanation and clarification, and that will be dealt with. Please review with any feedback or requests you may have. I love to hear from you! Thank you all so much for reading! :)*


	11. Chapter 11

Watching, Waiting Ch. 11

*Author's Note: Alright guys, I've got a nice, long chapter for you this time! Thank you so, so much to everyone who reviewed this last chapter. I love to hear from you guys so much. I especially want to thank those of you who have been diligently reviewing each chapter as I post it. You know who you are and you are amazing! I really appreciate your comments and support! Enjoy!*

"I'm not always like this  
It's something I've become  
A terrible weakness  
In my nature, in my blood

Save me, oh save me  
Save me from myself  
Before I hurt somebody else again"

-Imogen Heap, _Glittering Cloud_

Harry watches Tom for a moment, green eyes calculating. It's a lot to ask, to see the moments that make up a person, that dictate who they are. It's even more to ask it when you're someone likely to use that information against them. In this moment Harry has to decide how much he really trusts Tom, how open with him he can be. If Tom really wants to change, is really dedicated to taking this way forward, then showing him the memories would be worth it. However, if for some reason this is all just a ploy, some scheme to get information from Harry about how he defeated Tom in the first place, then allowing Tom access to his head could be dangerous, not just for Harry, but for everyone. Harry stares into Tom's spelled eyes, trying to decipher the truth in those indigo irises. But there's no way to tell what Tom is thinking. When it all boils down to it, all Harry has is his gut.

"Fine," Harry says finally, "but only if I get something in return. I want to know the details of how you came to be, when you made this horcrux and why. I can guess most of it from what I've seen, but I want to be sure. I want to hear your side of it."

For a second, Tom just looks at Harry, his expression perfectly blank. Then, finally, he nods.

"Alright," agrees Tom. "That sounds like a fair trade. I assume you want me to go first?"

Harry nods.

"Well," continues Tom after a brief pause, "I was twenty-two at the time. I was working at Borgin and Burks. It was my job to convince people with items of interest to part with their goods, for the right price of course. I think that career move surprised a lot of people. They were all expecting me to go straight into the Ministry, but I had other plans. The Ministry held no appeal to me at the time, not compared to the power I could obtain outside of it, through less legitimate channels. The Ministry was something to be tackled later, when I had the support and man-power to hold it. Besides, as I'm sure you already know, I was busy collecting certain items of historical significance. I had wanted a post at Hogwarts for that very reason. Of course, there were other aspects of teaching at Hogwarts that I found desirable as well, but that was one of them. Since I was too young for that, however, I knew Borgin and Burks would be the next best thing. It's amazing what passes through those doors. Don't get me wrong, most of it was junk. Cursed necklaces, dismembered hands, bones that would suddenly leap up and whack you on the head if you weren't careful. Most of it just looked impressive, was meant to scare and intimidate. But some of it, oh, some of it was really worth something. Some of it had real history behind it."

"Like Hepzibah Smith's cup from Hufflepuff," interjects Harry. Tom raises an eyebrow slightly, eyeing Harry with newfound interest.

"So you do know how I got it," murmurs Tom. "I thought you might have, since you so diligently tracked it down later, but I could never be sure. Yes, just like Mrs. Smith's cup. To think, that such a boring little old lady would have an item descended from one of the Hogwarts founders. An item of such importance, with such a history to it. It was wasted in her hands. Completely wasted. And it was all too easy to get it. Just a few well-placed compliments, a little much-needed attention, and a handsome face were all it took. She practically threw the thing at me. She knew that it would impress me, and by that point the woman was desperate for my attention. Anything to hold onto me a little longer, to have someone to sit there and smile politely while she prattled on about her nieces and nephews and the life she wished she'd had. Pathetic really, what loneliness can reduce people to. But it was talking to her that showed me. When I saw how easy it was to charm her out of the most precious thing she owned, that's when I truly began to appreciate the power of youth and a handsome face. That's when I knew that power had to be preserved. So, while I continued collecting items of significance to Hogwarts' history, I made my second diary, preserving my twenty-two year old self within its pages. The two diaries were different than all my other horcruxes. Most of them were just fragments of my soul, sealed away for safe-keeping, but the diaries were more. The diaries kept memories, too, preserved me just as I was at the time they were made. I decided to use Mrs. Smith's death to make it. It seemed fitting since she was the one who gave me the idea, even if that wasn't her intention."

"I see," says Harry slowly, trying to hide the disgust bubbling up within him at Tom's flippant description of the way he manipulated and then murdered the sweet old woman. "So you're just like the Riddle from the other diary then. Without any of the older Voldemort's memories, like time was just paused for you from then until now."

Tom nods.

"Indeed. Regretably, that's true. The memories of my older self have been lost," Tom admits, sounding almost wistful.

"Now then, Potter," he continues, "time for your side of the bargain."

Harry pauses for a moment, staring down into the gently swirling liquid within the pensieve as he tries to decide which memories he should share. There are so many to choose from, so many little moments that really, when it comes down to it, were important. It's amazing what moments were defining when you really look back on it. Even little, everyday events represent a massive part of one's existence when looked at from afar. Everything provides context, begins to set the scene for who you are. Eventually, however, Harry reaches up, pointing his wand at his temple. A silver substance pools there at Harry's wand tip, growing into a thick, metallic thread as Harry pulls his wand slowly away. Then, gently, as though afraid the silver strand will break, Harry draws the memory downwards, dipping it down into the pensieve's basin.

"After you," Harry says, his face drawn and determined. Tom glances at Harry once, noting the other boy's grim expression. Then, slowly, he leans forward, pressing his face into the cool liquid of the pensieve.

_Tom's stomach leaps into his throat as he plummets downwards. Some force is drawing him down, not gravity, obviously, since this place isn't real, but something like it. All around him, black liquid swirls, rushing right beside him but never actually touching his pallid skin. Then, suddenly, his descent stops. Walls form around Tom, slanted, short walls that press on Tom's back, forcing him down until he's kneeling. He's sitting in what appears to be a closet. Beneath Tom's feet rests a small mattress with a child's sleeping bag sitting on top. At the far end of the closet sits a row of dusty shelves. These shelves mostly just contain clothing, neatly folded and put away, but there are also a few figurines, some hint of a childhood. In front of Tom sits a young boy of around five or six years old. It's hard to tell precisely. From the boy's size and weight Tom would normally have guessed younger than five, but there's a wisdom in his eyes, some dark, depressed intelligence that no four year old could possess. Even at his size the closet is too small for him to live in, and it's certainly too small for Tom to comfortably fit along with him. A second later, the space becomes even more cramped as the present day Harry lands at Tom's side._

_ "You lived here? In a closet?" Tom asks quietly, his voice somber as he watches the young Harry slowly move his action figures around. Harry just nods._

_ "This is no place for a child to live," murmurs Tom._

_ "No," agrees Harry. "But I'm sure where you grew up wasn't much better."_

_ "At least I could stand up in the orphanage," grumbles Tom, shifting awkwardly as he tries to get comfortable in the cramped space. Harry's elbow is jabbing Tom painfully in the side, and his neck is beginning to ache from being so hunched over. Eventually, however, he gives up on trying to be comfortable, and just watches as Harry plays with his toys. It isn't the usual, energetic play of a five year old boy. There is no narration of what the action figures are doing, no sound effects or loud, guttural explosions. Instead, Harry remains perfectly silent, just moving the figures slowly around in front of him. This is a boy who's been shown the consequences of being loud, someone used to having to pretend that he doesn't exist. He's like a shadow instead of a loud, happy kid. And for a moment, Tom understands. _

_ "Boy! Get out here! Your chores aren't going to do themselves!" shouts a voice from the other side of the closet door. Then, something clicks, a lock on the door Tom realizes, and the closet door bangs open. A meaty hand reaches into the cramped space, grabs the young Harry by his over-sized shirt, and drags him bodily from the closet. Harry doesn't yelp, doesn't make so much as a sound. He knows by now not to talk back. A few years down the line Harry will finally get the courage to start muttering come-backs under his breath, to fight back, no matter how subtly against the Dursley's treatment of him. But for now Harry is too young and lonely and afraid to protest. He sees how other little boys are treated, how they're loved and embraced and coddled, and he thinks that he must be bad, must have done something horribly wrong to be treated so differently. It isn't until later that Harry learns to place the blame on the Dursleys instead of himself. For now, though, when the Dursleys tell Harry that he's a bad kid, that he's a freak, he believes them. After all, why else would they treat him the way they do?_

_ The older Harry pushes on Tom's shoulder, urging him forwards, and Tom eagerly complies, crawling in an embarrassingly undignified way out of the tiny closet under the stairs. Harry quickly follows, rubbing his stiff neck and grimacing as it cracks back into place._

_ "I'd almost forgotten how miniscule that closet was…" Harry grumbles, but it's a lie. He remembers all too well._

_ "Come on then," Harry continues, getting to his feet and following his younger self into the kitchen. Tom hurries after him. The man who dragged Harry out of the closet deposits the young boy in front of the sink, waving fat, sausage-like fingers at the dirty dishes piling up there. _

_ "Get cleaning, boy," the man snaps, his considerable jowls wobbling dangerously with every spittle-coated word. Then, as soon as Harry grabs the slightly damp sponge sitting on the edge of the sink, the large man trudges away. He seems eager to be away from Harry, as though afraid to catch something unpleasant from him. Tom can't begin to imagine what._

_ "That's my uncle Vernon," explains the present day Harry as his younger self begins to pour soap onto a grimy plate. He doesn't say anything else, though, doesn't try to explain his uncle's actions. Tom doesn't press him. _

_ The younger Harry looks incredibly small standing in the Dursleys' kitchen. His clothing hangs on him, hand-me-downs that are several sizes too large, making the boy look even smaller in comparison. In fact, the only thing Harry owns at this point in time that didn't used to be Dudley's are the small, round-framed glasses perched on his nose. Even homeless people have a cart or a backpack of possessions, but here, surrounded by all this fine furniture and comfort, Harry owns nothing. This place isn't his home; it never was. It's just four walls that contain people who hate him, people who don't even want him there. But despite all this, they did tolerate him. They did keep him. Even if a big part of Harry wishes that they hadn't, the Dursleys, in the end, had done their duty. Even if it was just the bare minimum._

_ Harry stands there next to Tom, watching his younger self hustle around the kitchen. The young Harry moves almost like a rabbit in scared little bursts of motion. He occasionally pauses, tense and on edge, to look about, sensing out the locations of his relatives in the house. Only when he notes that the Dursleys are safely far away does he resume tidying up. As Harry watches himself, something tight clenches in his chest. It's hard, knowing what's in store for that poor, scared little boy. That thin, little child is going to have to endure years more of this abuse, and then, when he's finally free of it, when he finally has friends and the Weasleys and people who'll accept him, he's going to have to lead a war against the most powerful and feared wizard in history. Things are never going to be easy for that little five-year-old. Still, though, Harry knows that it was worth it. If he had to go back and do it all over again, he would. Because even if things were never easy, even if every step along the way was a battle, it was a battle with something worth fighting for. Harry gained loved ones and then lost some of them again over the course of the war, but Harry knows now that it was worth the pain of losing them to have had them in his lives for even a short period of time. He would do it again. He would. It doesn't make looking at that child any easier, though._

_ Suddenly, Harry gasps as someone walks right through him. Vernon has returned, his face beet red with unjustified anger and his face scrunched into an ugly scowl. The younger Harry hasn't noticed him, too absorbed in scrubbing at a particularly tough bit of egg on one of the plates. Vernon takes a few lumbering steps into the room then stops, glaring at Harry for a moment before shouting at the top of his lungs._

_ "Boy!" he bellows, and the younger Harry starts, jumping up in the air and dropping the plate in his hands in surprise. The plate falls to the floor, shattering with a loud crash on impact. Bits of ceramic fly about the room, skidding across the floor as the plate breaks. Both Harry and Vernon stare in horror at the remains. Harry remembers this moment, remembers the fear his younger self felt, the complete and utter terror at the punishment he knew must be coming. Harry tenses despite himself, waiting with horrible anticipation for the inevitable. Tom just frowns, taking the scene in curiously._

_ Vernon has turned an even deeper, nastier shade of red, his mustache quivering in his fury. That plate had been part of a set inherited from Vernon's grandmother: fancy, expensive, and completely irreplaceable. Vernon takes a slow, angry step towards the five year old Harry. Harry's body is completely tense, his big green eyes wide with terror behind round lenses. Vernon takes another step towards the cowering boy and then another, his hands curling into fists and his back hunching over to bring his scowl even closer to the boy's round face. He's moving quickly now, practically running towards the scared child. The young Harry's eyes clench shut, wincing in anticipation of the blow he knows must be coming. He lets out one short, terrified whimper as Vernon's fist extends out towards his pale face, his hands reaching up to try and shield himself from the punch. Vernon's hand never connects, though. Instead, when the young Harry tentatively opens his eyes, he sees that his uncle has been blown forcibly across the room. Vernon's head strikes the wooden cabinets painfully, his face an almost comical expression of shock and horror. Harry looks almost equally horrified. He doesn't know what just happened, but he knows that whatever it was, he's managed to take his situation from bad to worse. Vernon no longer looks like he wants to hit Harry, though. Instead he looks shaken, afraid of the frail little five-year-old standing by his sink._

_ For a moment Vernon just stares, all his worst fears about his nephew confirmed in a few, short seconds. Then, he's shouting, letting out his fear in the form of angry phrases and hurtful words._

_ "You freak!" he's shouting, lunging to grab Harry by his shirt collar. "You little, ungrateful freak! I should have just left you out on the doorstep where you were found, should have just let you freeze to death, you ungrateful bastard! Just like your parents! Just as strange, just as useless!" He's dragging Harry across the floor now, occasionally pausing to clout Harry about the ears. Harry remembers how much those blows had hurt, how his ears had been buzzing for almost an hour afterwards. Harry and Tom quickly step out of the way as Vernon approaches, passing the invisible viewers to throw Harry bodily into the closet once more. The door shuts behind him. Then, Vernon locks it. The man is shaking now, his hand fumbling as he seals the closet door shut. Whether it's from anger or fear, though, Harry can't tell. Probably both._

_ "How can you be such an advocate of muggle rights when this is how the muggles who raised you treated you?" asks Tom, his voice cold and full of hate._

_ "Muggles are no worse than us," replies Harry, watching the closet door somberly._

_ "How can you defend these people?" Tom snaps incredulously, cutting Harry off. "Look at how they treated you! No wizard child can help doing wandless magic when they're angry or afraid, and your muggle uncle beat you for it and locked you in a closet! All just because you were different. All because you were special and they were oh-so-very ordinary. Because they were jealous and closed-minded and afraid of what their tiny little minds weren't capable of understanding!"_

_ "But they aren't that way because they're muggles!" shouts Harry, beginning to lose his temper. "They're that way because they're human, and flawed. I mean, listen to yourself! You're accusing muggles of being horrible for their prejudice, but you're being just as prejudiced against them as they are of us! Anybody can fear what they don't know, what they can't understand. When I was in my second year, I told this snake in Parseltongue not to attack this boy in my class, Justin. But instead of thanking me for saving him, he freaked out. He thought I was trying to kill him or something, that I was Slytherin's heir. He was just as afraid of me as my uncle was back then, and he lashed out just like he did. People fear power they don't understand. No one likes to feel helpless, or out-gunned. No one. Not wizards, or muggles, or anyone. I'm not saying the Dursleys are good people. Far from it. But they aren't bad because they're muggles. They're flawed because they're people, and, although it's taken me years, I've forgive them for that, even if I may never like them."_

_ "How on earth could you forgive that?" asks Tom, looking almost disgusted at the idea._

_ "I'll show you," says Harry, and the world dissolves into black wisps. When it finally reforms, Tom and Harry are still standing in the same kitchen. This time, however, the other version of Harry is much older, in his early teens perhaps. Uncle Vernon isn't the only Dursley in the room, either. A frail woman stands beside him, looking even thinner beside his plump bulk. Vernon is just as red as in the last memory and just as furious. He's yelling at Harry, screaming something about how Harry needs to leave now, needs to get out of his bloody house and never come back. This older Harry isn't just quietly standing by anymore, though. This Harry is shouting back, giving as good as he gets to the fat, mustachioed man, and he seems just as eager to leave as Vernon is. Their argument is interrupted, however, when a large, brown barn owl swoops in through the kitchen window. For a moment, everyone in the room is silent, just staring at the bird in silence. Then, Harry reaches out, untying the letter from the owl's helpfully extended leg. He frowns, though, when he sees whom the letter is addressed to. Wordlessly, he holds the letter out, offering it to his stunned aunt._

_ His aunt tentatively reaches out, bony fingers closing reluctantly around the bit of parchment. This seems to break the spell of silence on the room. Instantly, Vernon is yelling again, screeching about bloody birds all over his bloody house and how Harry needs to leave at once. Suddenly, a hand squeezes Vernon's arm, drawing the man's attention to the prim woman at his side. Aunt Petunia's expression has changed now. Now she doesn't look scared or apprehensive or angry. She looks determined: a woman about to get her way._

_ "They boy stays," she declares flatly, iron in her voice as she crumples the letter between her fingers._

_ "What?" splutters Vernon, taken aback. "But Petunia-"_

_ "No, Vernon," interjects Petunia firmly. "The boy stays. Harry, go upstairs to your room. Now." _

_ "What changed her mind?" Tom asks curiously, eyeing the scene with sudden interest. "She didn't seem to mind you leaving a second ago."_

_ "The letter in her hand," Harry replies, studying his aunt's lined face carefully as he speaks. He tries to see the resemblance to his mother, but can't. His memories of his mother stem from photos alone, and in all those photos his mum was young and happy and in love. Nothing at all like this thin-faced, middle-aged woman with her nose constantly in the neighbors' business. "It was from Dumbledore. It took me years to figure it out, but he eventually told me. It reminded Aunt Petunia why Dumbledore had sent me to this house in the first place. Petunia was my mum's sister, you see, so her blood was similar. While I was in her house, so long as I could call Privet Drive home, my mother's protection kept me safe through that shared blood. So you see, even while Petunia was fine with sitting back and even participating in a lot of the little abuses they put me through, she wasn't willing to cast me out for some dark wizard to kill. Somewhere, somewhere well hidden and very deep down, Petunia cared about me, even if it was only a little bit. Even though she was horribly jealous of my mom and hated her for it, she took care of her only son. Even if it wasn't as well as she could have. She could have cast me out, but she didn't. None of them did, not in the end."_

_ "You say that like it justifies what they did to you," mutters Tom, his voice bitter and dark._

_ "No," interjects Harry. "It doesn't make up for it, not really. They still treated me horribly. But it means that there was some human decency in them. Somewhere deep down. When it really counts. They had their limits to what they would do to me. Even if they did hate me, even if they were afraid of what my parents had been and what they knew I'd become, they still kept me alive, saved me from, well, you. The Dursleys just cared about different things. Being normal and fitting in were important to them, and I wasn't any of those things. They were always afraid of what the neighbors might think if someone found out about me. I wasn't allowed to talk about magic or school or anything, in case someone overheard me. That's why the owls bothered them so much. It's not normal for muggles to have owls flying in and out of their house, especially not during the day when owls are supposed to be nocturnal. I'm not saying it makes them good people, but it means there was something. Something worth forgiving. My cousin Dudley even apologized to me in the end for how he used to treat me. He was worried about me, too, when he found out there was an incredibly dangerous dark wizard after me. Actually asked if I was going to go with them into hiding like he wanted me along. I'll admit, though, that took me by surprise. I hadn't expected to ever get anything that concrete out of them, you know?"_

_ Tom just shakes his head, clearly still not understanding._

_ "They're more than just their mistreatment of me," Harry tries again, but Tom just continues to frown disbelievingly at him._

_ "It's a power to be able to forgive someone," Harry murmurs, his voice soft, as if the words are for his own ears alone. "It's easier to hate someone than it is to forgive them. It's harder than revenge and anger. But it is a power to be able to forgive someone who's wronged you. It takes strength. Sometimes, you just have to be bigger, be the better person because they're not able to, and someone… someone has to or else hate is all that's left. It's easier to hate than to try and understand, and that's where all of this starts. That's this whole bloody war, really." Then Harry shakes his head, seeming to snap out of this train of thought, coming up out of his own head and back into the present moment. _

_ "Anyways," he continues. "Let's look at something happier, shall we? After all, the Dursleys were only part of my life."_

_ Instantly, Privet Drive dissolves, melting into inky pools of blackness. For a moment, the black substance just swirls lazily around the two men, then, suddenly, it reforms. The pair is standing in what can only be the Gryffindor common room. Red and gold is everywhere. Striped banners bearing the emblem of the Gryffindor lion coat the walls. Plush, crimson armchairs sit facing a massive, stone fireplace. Coating the fireplace's mantle is a festive garland made out of fir needles, like a Christmas tree. Bright, red and gold baubles hang from the garland and float about in the air, catching the light and shining proudly. Clearly, it must be near Christmas. Three children are currently sitting in front of the fireplace: a girl with a thick, bushy head of hair, a freckle-coated, red-haired boy who could only be a Weasley, and Harry himself, although a much younger version of him. From what Tom has been told of history, he can only guess that the other girl and boy are Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. From what Tom can tell, nothing particularly significant is going on. The three are merely opening presents and joking around with each other: ordinary friendly behavior. Tom can't imagine why Harry would take him here, choose this out of all of the moments in his life to show._

_ "This meant a lot to me," Harry says, breaking the silence. "This was my first Christmas here, at Hogwarts, and it was the first time I'd ever gotten a present from someone else, let alone from a friend. I'd never even had any friends before this year. The Dursleys always just got me socks, or sometimes, nothing at all, so I'd never really seen anything special about the holiday before. But this year, I'd woken up and there'd actually been parcels at the foot of my bed all wrapped up in paper and bows and everything. It'd taken me a minute to figure out what was going on."_

_ In front of them, the red-haired child is tugging out a knitted maroon jumper bearing a massive letter "R" on the chest. He makes a face, turning a deep, embarrassed scarlet that matches his fiery hair as the others cajole him into pulling the sweater on over his head. A minute later, and Harry is holding a similar jumper, only in a deep emerald green to match his eyes. Instead of looking embarrassed or horrified, though, Harry looks awed by the garment. Tom watches the little boy's face closely, seeing the surprised happiness in his smile, the almost tearful glint to his emerald eyes. Clearly this hideous jumper really meant something to him, since he couldn't be that happy about the sweater in its own right. Heinous, really. _

_ "Mrs. Weasley knitted that for me," explains Harry, smiling fondly at the memory. "Ron's mum. I'd never had anyone actually make something for me, let alone such a sweet, motherly woman as Mrs. Weasley. It really meant a lot to me, having all these people who cared enough to spend time and money choosing something out for me. After all those years of just the Dursleys and being called useless and a freak, I'd finally found friends, finally found people who cared. I remember feeling that this moment was so perfect. After all, I finally had everything I'd always wanted. Hogwarts was the home I'd never had: a place where people accepted me for who I was and where people thought that I actually had potential, that I was really capable of becoming something. And then my friends and the Weasleys, Ron and Hermione, they were the family I'd never had, too. It was everything I'd been denied for all those years, and I'd finally found it."_

_ Harry and Tom watch as the younger Harry unwraps a massive book, obviously from Hermione, who beams when Harry murmurs his approval of the gift. Then she pounces, grabbing up the dark-haired boy in a tight hug, and the smile on Harry's face is so big that it hurts. Ron just laughs, taking the book from Harry and pretending to almost drop it due to its weight. Hermione swats at him, frowning and scolding, and Harry and Ron are laughing, laughing so innocently, so happily. And in that moment, Tom sees why Harry chose this moment to show him. In that moment, Tom begins to understand._

_ "These are the people I fought for," says Harry, watching the scene with fondness before turning to look Tom dead in the eyes. "These are the people I died for. And this ,these bonds, are why I was strong enough to kill you."_

*Author's Note: So much italics! Anyways, I hope you guys have enjoyed this chapter! Tom is finally starting to understand Harry a little better, and hopefully, the more he learns, the more relatable Harry becomes to him. Please review with any feedback or requests you may have. I love to read what you guys have to say, and I appreciate all the support you guys have been giving me as I write this story! Thank you all for reading!*


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